Autopsy by Mallika Bhaumik




A city rests in me,

when they cut me open

my salmon flesh, slimy innards stare out

at the empty roads and lonely parks

echoing abandoned footsteps.

A sheet of melancholy spreads itself o'er

my clogged arteries, perforated lungs and pancreas, my dried up bile ducts.

The city's once bustling roads and boulevards, the crisscross of flyovers peep over each other's shoulders

to discover the absence of shadows.


The fossil of love hides under my shut eyelids,

behind shuttered windows of shops, cafes and eateries

vultures circle the sky where once our stories grazed daylong in an unhurried calm,

tiny wavelets of sound bring in a song ~ sad, mournful.

A minuscule of a virus swells to become a demon that holds my city in thrall,

plastic wrapped bones, their queued silence.

A strange disentanglement precipitates;

a stifling stillness slithers its way through the stiffening muscles,

sorrow flies out like a crane,

mingles with the whiteness of death.

Follow Mallika's writing here.

 
 

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