Two Poems by Satya Dash

Learning to cook

It takes a toe at midnight
stubbing itself against a doorframe
to watch a frog leap
past my feet. The photo
of the photographer at a pre-wedding shoot
crouching forward on his knees, his buttocks
arching with purpose
to snap the couple in a cuddly pose is nothing
less than sweet and hilarious. These two
arbitrary events are connected
by the vast emptiness of atmosphere
we call nothing
or time. Though most of what floats around us
is actually nitrogen, resting like the shadow
of a noble animal, diffused all around, inert
and at ease with mortality. Such a kind of peace
I look to find on Sundays. As a way to indulge
in something relaxing but productive, I learn to make
chicken curry. I want to get it absolutely
right tonight. It’s my first time
at the broiler shop and the butcher looks straight
into the chicken’s heart before asserting on it
the primal language of his sickled knife. I’m the one
responsible because I asked him for fresh meat. The sun sets
a wild purple and I remain the only spectator
to his nonchalant labor as he wipes his face
with a torn vest, neatly double packing
in slick black polythene the stuff I came for. For just
a moment, I know I’m drawn
to the beauty of the ungainly splotches
of the September sky in the background
because I start imagining my body
on a different road in a different town
under the gaze of the same darkening sky.
Behind the shop, a slab
has cracked and the drain stands
exposed. As a car honks
its way through the lane, the price
of 900 grams of flesh
I take out from my wallet.

Love Poem with Reverse Chronology

before I spent                         the entire morning trashing

          spam                unsubscribing from emails           deleting

browser history                          the hands broke through

          the drizzle          to unveil a hibiscus stem           raised on  

knuckles the raindrops looked                like disappearing

          pearls      fingers developed wings     fluttering into petals

there was one martyr          in the garden:           my body

          arrived from having called                     ephemeral things

awesome                     at the airport in Calcutta I learned

          the lessons of attention                        and meditation all

at once          my back facing                       the boarding

          gate                         headphones weaving from ear to eye

a slow lightning of snooze              while shuffling across

          a medley         of the Beatles’ best           wafting beneath

the wildgrass       of my brows           when the plane left

          in my whole life I’m sure           I have never felt smarter

than that     wasted on rice, mustard fish curry and cheap

          port wine       so bloodshot red                       it made us

yell down                gutters                the melody of retro

          Bollywood songs                   under the glittering shroud

of open theatre sky           I listened              to the hour

          long monologue                           of the dazzling actress

my rascally tongue did not move                  like the skin

          of a bell’s clapper rung frozen                           in prayer

beneath the refuge        of a baffled tent my palms made

          rippled syllables                              of your purring head

the most glorious sounds      I have seen my chest make

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