Down by the river,          beside the red
                              tiled cottage
                                               resembling the ones seen
       on new-year greeting cards,                        the canopy clouds
over the road like a distended brain
                                                         watching over a singular vein.
There, under this brain, we first decide
                       to kiss—we decide         in the way big board
meetings come to conclusion about the immediate
                         action items         after reviewing insights

from their annual revenue report.          Only here the mandate
                          for retrospection is long
             gone for our dioxide doused          bodies, the split second
chemistry between any maiden pair
                      of lips more awkward, less suave
                                                      and definitely less congratulatory
              than that of most corporations.        The wind creams
     our craters, cradles      our peaks, extending              the evening
for a bit.                  Crepuscular animals   in their night-vision
            goggles approve.                 The muffled hum

of the overlooking brain— it seeks, it learns, it yearns
                                         to be a philomath,       watches me daily
             clean pores, shave hairs, scrub calves

                        caked deep in mud. To keep the brain entertained,
I exhibit in bleeding trance
                                            the full range of my
unspectacularity:         tantrums and hangovers,
        the relentless cursing      and distasteful jokes, the grudges
and persisting titillation.       When lightning strikes,
                                                    a hymnal neuron                snakes

 
up my feet.                Ribs flicked, I hiss
    at the horizon smog          my vaulting tongue. The longer
we kiss, the longer          I pray. The longer the brain,        half-lush
                       and mush-gold, feeds me
     thirst.   The leaves blade                sullied moonlight
                                into crisp whispers                        of new
mothers.           Below, two scabby mouths                crane into one,
                  heads glued tight,                  genes engrossed
to shape an eight,       making a quick pool of skin          to catch
     the infinite needles                                                                of rain.

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 Poet Lore, 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, Orison Anthology and Best New Poets. He grew up in Cuttack and now lives in Bangalore, India. He tweets at @satya043.