Alisha Nangia‘s poem: Burying a lover

It’s 3 p. m on a Tuesday.
I know exactly what you are doing.
Slender fingertips noodle along
the Old Grand,
recalling a
a melody caught between
the memory of July rain and
lithe bodies pressed against walls.
What was desire to you?
An anomaly, like me.

I throw a handful of dirt and the scene
flickers at the seams.

It’s the first rain of August suddenly;
your figure silhouetted against the cloudy blue curtains,
gives me a sideward glance as I
lace my fingers with yours.
Words like ‘us’ and ‘destiny’ and ‘love’
are ice cubes running down your spine.

The next fist of dirt is more forceful.
What a fool! What a fool again!

Then it becomes easier.
Every three-hour conversation,hastily stubbed cigarette,
tossed bedsheet and borrowed slippers,
and that tiny space between the window, secret haven of a midnight rendezvous-
is buried.

My fists quiver, fingers slacken,
broken nails, nicotine-tainted,
I bury you alive.
Like you did me.

A maniacal laugh.

My slender figure slumps forward, exhausted.
This will do. It has to.
The colours shift and settle,
and just before I start to get up,
there it is-
Moon River, playing on the Old Grand.
And all is lost again.

Alisha is a high-school English teacher who believes that she writes because she cannot unthink, unsay or unfeel stuff. 

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