a pocketful of (   )

By Amrita Adak, a first-year ETA

backdoor, backyard, last year

brown skin littered with little flowers

pockets so dauntingly heavy

they press me into the pavement

a rap on the door

then two

then

_______

questions partner with 

questions but find no answer

i let my phone ring out 

into the honey‑dew summer air

a pocketful of missed calls 

ones that feed a starved hope while 

humoring some uncertain regret

and

Rekha mashi¹ reaches out sometime in the fall

two tickets sit on the table next to an empty fruit bowl

a cabinet full of medicine

the crisp sound of leaves under feet

like stitches coming loose at the seams

sometime between today and tomorrow,

Change will come knocking at the door 

and a distant echo will rattle resolve,

questioning ever so quietly whether i’m prepared

a pocketful of yesterday’s earphones

ones that you could still tangle and rip to pieces

and

an email sits patiently wondering when it’ll be opened 

it’s already been a few weeks in a foreign land  

but the chill in the air feels like a factory reset 

words that had become easy

now make doubt linger in all the liminal spaces  

a longing that would take a thirty three hour ferry to cross 

did you know? 

i now say hello to the sun and moon before you

a pocketful of lost time and polaroids

ones with smudging little love letters scrawled across the back

and 

in the suffocating heat of summer 

a misguided nose weeps 

sweat forms a perfect silhouette of 

a body in bed, unmoving

vulnerability picks at my nails 

just as it does my conscience

reminiscing about a soft touch on the forehead, a cool cloth’s kiss

a pocketful of yesterday’s missing puzzle pieces 

ones that somehow click into place with today’s unrest

and 

i miss you

i miss you

i miss you, i think.

1. A Bengali word used to refer to someone who is an aunt or has close enough ties to be regarded as an aunt. ↩︎