Bare of Shade
They said I'd reach home if I reached your heart.
So I took the odd path
followed blood trails
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
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.