The day I name the way
a maze
it begins to own a bit of me,
and I lay
my claim on a patch of its length
that circles
an overgrown shrub, the time-eaten wall
and a shameless body of muddy water.
At one point
I feel the desire to leave the maze
drying, dying.
From hollow in my abdomen
an eclipse of moths swirl out.
The sun relents;
crickets croon some troubled Sinéad.
On a rock I sit.
Again I walk, stumble upon a upturned
perambulator.
Shadows ebb and tide once more.
I recall the time
my body used to grow and the point
it stopped.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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