By Oindri Sengupta
THAT GROWS INSIDE There used to be a room of my own. When days hung like photographs on the walls that fit inside me like allegories in your poems, bringing many sunsets to rise from my mother's leftover knitting yarn. It was a room without a face, a place where time was a misnomer. I lived there between living and unliving and went on to travel barefoot to unveil the hunger of a road. Like silence grows in the attic, the air now is drenched with smell of burnt grasses as it lies abandoned like a ragged cloth on the side of a highway. With each passing day I see it fall, from everything that was inside me and with every bit of my life and living.
Oindri Sengupta is an assistant teacher of English at a Govt School in West Bengal. She had been published in journals like The Lake, Istanbul Literary Review, Chiron Review, Outlook India, Plato’s Caves Online, Abridged. Her debut collection of poetry is After the Fall of a Cloud. Her poetry has also been adapted into a play.
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