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