A Day Dripped Day

Shome Dasgupta


           Keeyaut. Keeyaut keeyaut
           keeyaut. Coooo!
      bleeding—a dripped day,
                                           scarred over hay baled
field, bronze and lazy, lolli-
popped green-less grass,
we lay under a canopy
of clouds
           —your cousin,
killed by a bus
in Kolkata
years ago,
           so a rooster’s
           crow echoed
                                          —the beat
of a triangle, its tinging in our heads,
          like the glint
                                          of the sun
          passing horizons of branches,
          we shout the language
of the farm—much like when your cousin,
with two mangoes,
to garu, and we held hands,
our tongues waiting for fruit
and da’i.
          Keeyaut. Keeyaut keeyaut
          Keeyaut. Keeyaut. Coooo—
we sigh, letting the heat
sprinkle its skin on our faces.