Kushal Poddar has eight books to his credit including Postmarked Quarantine. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of Words Surfacing. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe. Twitter-https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
Night plays with the outer walls.
Black acts rebellious, defies gravity's reign.
The monks who fed us a dozen oranges
pray in far side dormitory. Hearing is holy.
Forgetting doesn't mean walking away
from a memory. I step into the sleep's garden,
write your names with pebbles - all small letters,
and realise that instead of a name it is a long sentence.
The death of the bird, lone,
on the winter's clothesline, goes
unhailed even by itself, clandestine.
Sometimes I see it. It poses like
figure 'One', pluse on the upper segment
of the sky bisected by the wire.
Everything below is light and decorative.
Mistletoes drain the old trees.
My drone lips hit yours. The explosion
doesn't vex the curtains.