seaboyman ~ poetry

Fish drown at sundown

The red tides of the sky at twilight- though neap- is no less of a kill-

The post office birds speak their lullaby chirps- the cobbler wraps up-

for the peepal* he works under emits toxic levels of CO2 - or-

in the science- a ghost that kills without a trace of blood-

there are three ways to enter the sabzi bazaar*- I go in from the north-

it's a straight path to blood- 'Is this a fish market!'- My English teacher-

used to- squeal her metaphorical scolding at the noisy class- but-

mam- you were wrong- it is as noisy as the benthic home of corpses-

chicken jackets- rotten- flow out through the parallel passages- to-

the Kanchan* outside- which blooms as big as a brick-

the fish section is next- where an old man clicks his tongue- at the

dinner come in the even- to his mouth- the fishmonger starts- about the

rectitude of a sardine spine being an indication of its taste- the species

to fry- the species to curry- about the fish business drowning in the rising

air of prices- and I slip away behind the three boxes of ice just arrived-

on the way back- I confirmed that no one sits on a ladder like man random-

a group of burqas - or the women inside- all have a balloon held aloft- the

cobbler has gone- a purple balloon is rising up- up- up- gets caught on the

electric pole- vibrates- dissipates- fades- fades- until it's completely naked-

It is twilight- but no one looks at the sky- because there is so much to look

Down upon.

~Ajay
25/12/18
*A flower locally (in Marathi) known as Kanchan, it belongs to the family Caesalpinioideae, but I'm not sure of the species
*Peepal- sacred fig tree
*Sabzi bazaar- vegetable market