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Noon Rest From Work

you reap
ripe fields
blade’s beard
splits brittle wheat
black pocks mark
crows that sow
billhooks in lapis
noon peels oil
from canvas
she stretches
folds her head on
cambric arms
walk to her
through bristling
umber brushstrokes
slip your feet
from damp boots
lay sickle on
sickle clasped
close as a swift’s
curved wings

Kate Horsley

Mocking the Burning Giraffe

Last time I belled the cat three months back. Perhaps since then I completely lost my vision. Really can’t see anymore. My mug is still pouring and I really tried way too hard.Hence my neighbour again objected thrice on the eve of Easter Sunday for crying so loud. He weighed nearly 322 pounds [recently on diet], and has now moved to the Far East for living. I heard that he bought a brand new house, which has been twice painted in white – as far I guess. He never loved my beautiful young ox or old chubby wife. Unfortunately his fiancée was a police. The lady cop tolerated me weeing in the shrine for so long but just exploded when I had started praying at last. She had never been a doubting Thomas. I could barely hide my swarthy butt from then on. The sceptical high priest strongly believed that I am a Jim crow [or a gay] so must be cremated before my death. The mob were already convinced about it long ago. They were actually cynical about my gender and odd orange bloomers [truly I didn’t wear any] as it was really smelling a like rat. Finally the truce was made. They all promised to send me to the loony bin if I try to cough even once more. No surprise that Rudolph [our pet reindeer] now has a blue nose, who modestly told me: I am sure Saint Nicholas never existed – No one saw him ever. Poor fellow! I trusted him. Then we crashed the coloured eggs. He wished a toast for good health. I honestly loved the deep-dish pie although I badly needed a glass of water. And most interestingly the cobbler – next door, asked me to change my laptop right now or if I could flog my iphone instead. But he didn’t notice my shoes. Those were antique indeed. I swear a genuine Salvatore Ferragamo. None of them could spell!

Sutirtha Roy