"Father Mother and Child" by Emanuela Iorga
2 poems by Satya Dash
Elasticity
I see the boy dancing on the mountain.
The sculpted mountain, just by virtue
of its structural integrity, renders untrue
the laws of gravitation. The boy descends down
its slope, the stones he displaces sing. I hear
the steady beat of his feet, his galloping breath. He has
the face of a teenager I can tell
is my father’s. I cannot imagine this face
in love. That’s completely on me. The boy
evaporates when the mountain avalanches into a heap
of baking powder. My mother adds a couple
of teaspoons from it to the all-purpose
flour. The recipe insists you should bake
until the cake springs back to the touch. Ma says,
it’s the true test of tenderness.
The first time I kiss
the mouth of someone I love
I lie
I have not kissed before.
Before I know it I lie.
The sculpted mountain, just by virtue
of its structural integrity, renders untrue
the laws of gravitation. The boy descends down
its slope, the stones he displaces sing. I hear
the steady beat of his feet, his galloping breath. He has
the face of a teenager I can tell
is my father’s. I cannot imagine this face
in love. That’s completely on me. The boy
evaporates when the mountain avalanches into a heap
of baking powder. My mother adds a couple
of teaspoons from it to the all-purpose
flour. The recipe insists you should bake
until the cake springs back to the touch. Ma says,
it’s the true test of tenderness.
The first time I kiss
the mouth of someone I love
I lie
I have not kissed before.
Before I know it I lie.
Two Deaths
Unable to dice onions without weeping, how can I
not think about beauty conspiring with terror once
again. The lachrymatory chemical that so piquantly
contributes to the fabric of my curry compels me
to compensate for all the tears I didn’t brandish
while grieving for you. How can you not love such
catalysts, their insistence on enrichment: orange
rinds float past borders of dreams and deposit
their essence in my breakfast bowl, garlanding
muesli soaking in cold milk. As I chew, I remember
your voice; my senses become alive to the little
ghosts I gulp. Because your body has left, you are free
to live in mine. I can vouch for roominess and regular
sanitation. But you might have company sometimes: I can’t
help being a house to foreign bodies; I’m about to fall
asleep when a mosquito traces plumes of my exhaled carbon
dioxide, only to enter my ear. After it’s recovered
as a corpse in a stream of baby oil, the shell in my ear hums
the mute melody your solitary bangle used to make
on skin. An emphatic nod of your head waxes my ducts clean.
not think about beauty conspiring with terror once
again. The lachrymatory chemical that so piquantly
contributes to the fabric of my curry compels me
to compensate for all the tears I didn’t brandish
while grieving for you. How can you not love such
catalysts, their insistence on enrichment: orange
rinds float past borders of dreams and deposit
their essence in my breakfast bowl, garlanding
muesli soaking in cold milk. As I chew, I remember
your voice; my senses become alive to the little
ghosts I gulp. Because your body has left, you are free
to live in mine. I can vouch for roominess and regular
sanitation. But you might have company sometimes: I can’t
help being a house to foreign bodies; I’m about to fall
asleep when a mosquito traces plumes of my exhaled carbon
dioxide, only to enter my ear. After it’s recovered
as a corpse in a stream of baby oil, the shell in my ear hums
the mute melody your solitary bangle used to make
on skin. An emphatic nod of your head waxes my ducts clean.
Satya Dash is the recipient of the 2020 Srinivas Rayaprol Poetry Prize and a finalist for the 2020 Broken River Prize. His poems appear in The Boiler, ANMLY, Waxwing, Rhino Poetry, Cincinnati Review, and Diagram, among others. Apart from having a degree in electronics from BITS Pilani-Goa, he has been a cricket commentator. He has been nominated previously for Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best New Poets. He grew up in Cuttack and now lives in Bangalore, India. He tweets at: @satya043
Emanuela Iorga is a filmmaker, artist, and screenwriter, who lives in Chisinau, Moldova. Art represents for her a recently rediscovered passion, following a series of world and inner changes. Her work can be found at https://manolcaincosmos.wordpress.com/270-2/
