Aditi Machado
lives in Bangalore, India, where she is an undergraduate student of English literature, media and psychology. Aside from poetry, her passions include visiting quaint old book stores, the French language (which she teaches part-time), amateur photography and good movies. She also works as a reviewer for Different Strokes, an Indian youth magazine.
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After a long day, the city in her bed
She shakes her grey jacket
onto a chair: dust lights up
in the air, reminding her of
the neon along the road she drove.
Dust: the city shed from skins—
the residue of malls and outdoor toilets.
Or whatever’s thrown from the wheel of a bicycle
and then a motor car.
This could be a heaven,
where folds of skin are nooks
and we are a collective wrinkle.
In her room, there are two:
her body, soft
against the covers
and her city,
stiff against the surface
of her grey
jacket—
a gentle black, a new layer
from a day in the sun.
Kabir
I stood on the beach at night, waiting for Kabir. Waves flashed and huts smoked. I heard ancient tongues in the water. Urdu, I thought. Meems and alifs swam into shells, my palms, my ears.
I carried the shells to the garden. I saw the rain on leaves, the silk of dawn lifting, stones along the riverbed—and I was bored. Which Kabir would it be? Kabir the homeless hero. Kabir struck by a lightning twig. Kabir by a rose bush. A lime tree. A thousand birds in the sky, but held—still—to clouds, branches, stars. Kabir the scratch of time.
Now I sit on the steps of the temple. I get up and sweep. It is noon. Tomorrow Kabir is a stranger.
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