Blur the room with whiskey wet couch
holding the posterior of my old man
as if this should decide the world series;
blur the lines of the threshold and the porch
where a cactus survives my mother's health;
blur the rusting motorcycle whose ebony
ruled the streets with its smart mouth when kicked;
blur these and you should see an apparition,
then again during the novel virus time it may seem
some girl, normal and demised, denied and accepted.
I shush you with my ring finger on my mouth,
touch my sister, cover her naked agoraphobia,
clothe her amygdala, tell her that you are a phantom,
that she exists and that her panic attacks suit us,
afterall this world is a couch holding on to our tired births
as if it should determine the results of the fates.
Kushal Poddar - Kolkata