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Dipika Mukherjee

Dipika Mukherjee

Graphic Art by Biman Mullick


Eighteen long years,
honeyed mostly, but singed by the fire of two people
who both believe and assert, sometimes too emotionally –
of nights silenced by desire and ire – Eighteen years. As many years
of life as when we first met, young and open. The years have burnt through
the wax, puddled into moats to protect the flame, but there is no
denying the strength of what we have woven, stitch-by-stitch, repairs
and patches, it shimmers with a life that we did not dream of when
we first kissed. Like a Buddhist pennant, this is a flag
in the wind, touching the earth,
reaching for the skies.

Anomie is…

Anomie is…     the slide of a lip
mirrored on the wall     in the hustle of a mall

saying         Where the HELL were you??
It’s emotion imaged     in strange eyes

passing and pausing,     shaking
an outraged ponytail     on a rigid back.

And you see that,     you don’t hear the timbre
of that familiar tremble     or see the concern

in the unimaged brow.     You read
in passing eyes     Womenhatingheathens

and respond with     Screw You
although you know     you should just turn

reach for that hand     knobbed with age;
the grasp as familiar as a shared history.


It’s the clamor
the need, the constant want;
I understand Vanaprastha
at forty, The-Hermit-in-Retreat,
I understand those that walk away,
not looking back; in this–
the cold sunshine through
decaying leaves–to think
of forging, binding, weaving,
when life is unhooking
unwinding, falling
with such a gentle swish...
seems impossible.

Reach for the prayer beads,
one hundred eight
rudrakshas, hard brown knobs
slip around these fingers
hold me here. Turn
in a silent Om,
mindlessly, conciously, on.


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