nascent pines run their fingers on your grassy skin
and the winds leave fern-like earrings tinkling under your craggy ears
Mylliem, remember me.
Remember how I had seen your rain, its portion of leaf and moss
erupting like an august lava from fissures of your heart,
how eagerly I had grabbed a handful of it
to scatter on thought’s sterile ground;
small green sparks in a grey square of hollows.
You tattooed your passion, through the hands of a blacksmith,
on a sheet of his metallic life; I heard you.
I hear you now as well in the rain of anvil and hammer;
it imitates you doing similar things to cabbage and potato- patterned slopes.
I stood smiling by what looked like half eaten cakes
only you cried and told me they were hills; chunks shorn of soil’s ferric-red joy.
You said I must speak to trees; know them before I left,
those delirious roots and trunks that barely stood half gripping their sliced
I met precocious rivers pregnant with early silt.
Soon, your regimes will reveal squalid convexes of an embryonic town,
concrete on your fringes, impending steel in the resolute years,
pushing open like the jaws of a vice.
Is nativity so bad? Mylliem freeze or you’ll die.
And remember me.
For I have walked mental maps of sorrow’s hills
and dusks have always led me to that deliberate practice—
regurgitating textures, feeling the likes of you on my worsted tongue,
chewing a fading cud of impressions,
some childhood sketchpen-perfect greens.
Nabanita Kanungo is a geographer