Griefcase

By Urvish Lodha

A voice seeps from my dry mouth 

Like a pigeon flapping by a dark windowsill. 

The eye of a candle carried in a cloak, 

Wax burning to a dim. 

In my nose lives a crying child. 

Even in the numbing echoes of silence 

I strut past the fishnets intently, 

A dog panting in the sun, flapping its tongue 

Dripping o’er the ice-blocks by the sea 

The bottom beckons me to come 

Into the head of an anglerfish, swirling 

Like a frisbee in the deep 

I knock on no one’s doors, I dust bicycles 

And quote myself in conversation with the waves 

I don’t listen. I refuse to be touched 

My fingers sharp like a hook in the mouth 

Of a bounding sailfish 

Swooping like a chandelier in the mist 

Some days I seek to touch my extremities 

And still feel like standing.

By Urvish Lodha