In Her Sleep

Your shirt buttons
In my hands
Turn like the planets.
Around them
A ring of
All my evening skies.
I can only see things
Through cracked window panes.
The rains wait for me
By blinking traffic lights
And have left the cars
Waiting for the police
To rescue them from the flood.
In your city
They auction off summer evenings
At the behest of those
Who gaze at the sky
And see nothing.
At night
Your shirt buttons
Move in my fingers
Like the moon changing sides
In her sleep.

We Flutter Like Open Books

The streets
From my house to hers
Rest like a thin film of dust
On the dining table.
The rain’s fingerprints
Under a magnifying glass
Are now distorted.
We once had bridges
Across our terraces
Under which slept
The afternoons of our childhood.
They crumple at the corners
Yellowed with absence
When in bed
We flutter like open books
Caught in a storm.

When they leave

In a city like mine
The monsoons enter through
The backdoors.
They walk in without a greeting
Taking it for granted
That we are in the drawing room
Watching TV
Waiting for them.
Taking their place on the sofa
And engaging in small talk
They look around.
Forgotten hands in the meantime
Serve forgotten stories
That only the rains can read.
The clouds gather outside our windows
Like neighborhood children
Waiting for their friends
To come out and play.
When everyone leaves
Like everyone does
The room smells of new books,
Her hair,
And clothes that have been put away
To be worn next winter.

Sayan Aich Bhowmik is currently Assistant Professor, Department of English, Shirakole College. His poems have appeared in journals in India and Abroad, the most recent being South Florida Poetry Journal and Madras Courier. He has also been recently Longlisted for the inaugural Ralph Angel Poetry Prize hosted by Foundlings Press.