Loss is Like That

Morph to blood hibiscus,
bloom lush, bloom lush—
repeats a warbler. 

Jujube’s denial is gone,
                oriole’s outcry demurred
                                and a Santali drum
                                             through the nerve of Makole.

Where there was a bare hill,
                                now lavender wallpaper.
Where there was muck,
                                now a tulsi patch.

The mink is the monk of the marsh,
sings the duckweed.     Your heaven
is not in the eyes of Rudra,
                                     beads spill

through the yogi’s fingers:     rose metal       bell metal—
             aurora borealis burns.

- Sankar Roy