All day I have been hearing my voice
ricocheting in the silent solstitial house.
It is like a mewling cat caught in a trough.
We hear from every apartment until we do not.
And then we understand death.
I used to keep a bowl of cat food at the chut’s mouth.
The bowl had ‘Hope’ inscribed on it.
An overflow of ants startled me.
The bowl shattered. I washed my hands
again and again, opened the medicine cabinet,
rattled the orange vial of the pills all expired
long ago.
Poetry by Kushal Poddar
Photo by Adam Strong
Kushal Poddar
The author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. 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
Backwards Trajectory 