the mountain goat goes baa-a-a-a
i am alive-still
looking at the longarch-browed
mountain goat go baa-a-a-a
grazing on my potted chickweed;
daddy gifted it to you
fifteen years ago,
the whistling orchards
could contain no more,
for two hands
to arrange them
in a line.
who mowed your lawn before spring?
we should have
which is why it is
we did not
it keeps planting
crushed seeds of
the garden-dry lined
keep away from pretty places
it was saturday--the air smelt of
it was brown-skied dark
the water hurled onto the edge of the blue boat under
the marmalade laid perfectly on moonspoons,
we messed our happy picnic day
tanned baskets, fussy brown, you
bunched larkspur pushed
won't you come to my place tonight?
you kissed me
like i ain't yours but
only wanted to write more
blue-ribboned yellowbordered gibberish
come to bed, tonight
your waning presence of my
gave me no pleasure,
mon cher--only flung my
purple-ink across a few more
i never had you, did i?
unrolling old cassette tapes--sharing a lemon-sicle--smelling gasoline-steel
together was our happyplace till
i learned to hold a pen
to un-love familiar
it was another of our saturdays
prettyplace warmwater strungbaskets
packed racquets, bacon, even your favorite pair of socks, my
without warning you collapsed the mossgreen bridge.
A student of Comparative Literature for most part of the day, Srishti Dutta Chowdhury reads, listens to whatever catches her fancy and writes a tad bit whenever she cannot do without putting some words to paper. She has been published at Coldnoon Travel Poetics, Bangalore Review, Quail Bell, the Brown Critique Magazine, the Norwich Radical, Kindle, etc. Besides reading, writing, living poetry, she fancies herself as a food philanderer and keenly follows food photography. Her photography can be viewed at the Instagram handle "srishtiduttachowdhury"
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