Is it possible then
That the moment you undress
The tungsten bulb melts
On your moonlight skin.
A country in exile
Dreams in the languageof return
Where everyone looks
Like everyone else.
Outside the night moves on tiptoe
And our ceiling opens up
To the counting of the stars
When morning arrives
Like the rightful heir
My fingers are laced with attar
Orbitting the planets on your breasts.
Your clothes catch fire
And in that glow
I see your lips move
And write in air
My names from previous births.
——
Sayan Aich Bhowmik is currently an Assistant Professor in the Department of English at Shirakole Mahavidyalaya, Kolkata, India. A published poet, he is also the editor of the blog Plato’s Caves, a semi-academic space for discussion on life, culture, and literature.