"Tree in a Pot" by Josephine Florens
Aditi Bhattacharjee | Five Year Plan
Each season arrives later than
it did the year before, stretching time
beyond our grasp. December’s
branches are not yet bare, they cling
to color. The good years have escaped me
like breath into cold air much like the other self
trained in silence, lost in a past life—before
all the loves too—vanished among other
things. I find myself alone again.
Elsewhere the world is grey and wet
snowed in and at a standstill. Not here.
In this New York apartment, all this light
streaming at the heel of a false Fall is mine.
The cat scratches the sofa relentlessly
to ruin, for a lack of anything else to amuse.
The squirrel arrives daily at the window
for its ration of nuts, and birds for their grains at the sill
eager to untether themselves from hunger’s oppression.
The not-noise of the world is palpable and as I write
these lines I am thinking of you again. Wondering
what shade of light touches you in that faraway country
fabled for its ancient volcano where Noah’s Ark landed.
Five years have gone too soon in our measured distances.
The price of milk has doubled, more trips to the beach
have been cancelled. The beet bleeds under my knife
as I contemplate the appropriateness of celebration.
In the pool the other swimmers are more deft
than me. Water rushes in and demonstrates the din
of vacuum. Isn’t this the life that withstood the injuries
of desire? For the next five years, I wish
only this: let the silence be sound. Let the yearning
be sweet. Let the night be long.
it did the year before, stretching time
beyond our grasp. December’s
branches are not yet bare, they cling
to color. The good years have escaped me
like breath into cold air much like the other self
trained in silence, lost in a past life—before
all the loves too—vanished among other
things. I find myself alone again.
Elsewhere the world is grey and wet
snowed in and at a standstill. Not here.
In this New York apartment, all this light
streaming at the heel of a false Fall is mine.
The cat scratches the sofa relentlessly
to ruin, for a lack of anything else to amuse.
The squirrel arrives daily at the window
for its ration of nuts, and birds for their grains at the sill
eager to untether themselves from hunger’s oppression.
The not-noise of the world is palpable and as I write
these lines I am thinking of you again. Wondering
what shade of light touches you in that faraway country
fabled for its ancient volcano where Noah’s Ark landed.
Five years have gone too soon in our measured distances.
The price of milk has doubled, more trips to the beach
have been cancelled. The beet bleeds under my knife
as I contemplate the appropriateness of celebration.
In the pool the other swimmers are more deft
than me. Water rushes in and demonstrates the din
of vacuum. Isn’t this the life that withstood the injuries
of desire? For the next five years, I wish
only this: let the silence be sound. Let the yearning
be sweet. Let the night be long.
Aditi Bhattacharjee is an Indian poet and translator based in New York City. Her work has appeared in Gone Lawn, Inquisitive Eater, The Los Angeles Review, Sky Island Journal, Epiphany Lit, Pinch, Greyhound Journal and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for Best New Poets, Best of the Net, Pushcart Prize and shortlisted for The Prose Poem’s Spring Short Prize. She holds an MFA from The New School.
Josephine Florens is a Ukrainian artist based in Germany. Her paintings explore identity, memory, and resilience through expressive color and symbolic form. Exhibited internationally, her works have appeared in journals and collections across Europe and North America.
