Bare of Shade

They said I'd reach home if I reached your heart.

So I took the odd path

went left

followed blood trails

rabbit burrows

wizened grass, dry wells.

Until I reached un mended fences

barbed wires, geographical chalk lines,

morbid like skeletal grins.

Then I went right

walked through eyes that shone

like sweat in the hollow of the collar bone

followed the scratch of the twig in the mud -

followed wilted tuberoses

strewn on the road like tortured, white, fairy brooms.

Until I reached alphabets, vernacular kick starters

poetry and the rustling-bamboo flutter of turning pages

jaundiced by sun's mania.

And then I knew

Not reaching

Not settling

Not winning

Not being

I knew that homes are bare of shade.

They hang like dead birds from wires of distance.

Claw at air to send litanies that make even seasoned Gods kneel.

Homes are in those pining gazes we exchange

when we pretend not to look at each other,

aware of the galaxies that so easily keep us apart.

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