Shome Dasgupta
Poem
Coooooooo-eeeeeeee!
Keeyaut. Keeyaut keeyaut
keeyaut. Coooo!
Sun-bled,
bleeding—a dripped day,
sky
scarred over hay baled
field, bronze and lazy, lolli-
popped green-less grass,
we lay under a canopy
of clouds
—your cousin,
killed by a bus
in Kolkata
years ago,
so a rooster’s
crow echoed
—the beat
of a triangle, its tinging in our heads,
like the glint
of the sun
passing horizons of branches,
we shout the language
of the farm—much like when your cousin,
with two mangoes,
whispered
to garu, and we held hands,
our tongues waiting for fruit
and da’i.
Coooooo-eeeeee.
Keeyaut. Keeyaut keeyaut
Keeyaut. Keeyaut. Coooo—
we sigh, letting the heat
sprinkle its skin on our faces.