Concrete-ing Melancholy

By Purbasha Roy

It's like an obsession with salt

sprinkled on watermelon cubes

kept like a small hill in transparent glassware

between the thumb and forefinger

I pick the white grains and sprinkle

in circular fractals , radii always less

than plate circumference

I see the act of their soundless disappearance

inside red placenta

 their bodies speedily unrecognizable

I lick my fingers

this is the almost behaviour of misery

in river of normalcy of world

I am aware of the visible desires of my body

you call over phone and say 'can't make it for brunch'

the loud myna interrupts the tide

of ungorgeous silence around me

I sink the fork in juicy pieces

and leave the dining

my immature hunger hardens into

a shapeless melancholy