The First Morning
i.m. Sutapa Majumdar
A loss so long ago
I cannot find it.
The very next morning—
the first morning—
the pin-drop
sun fell dully
on wood;
every object
affixed the room.
On a hook
my kurta hung,
starched
white to moth-wing.
The air
soft-pelted with
incense,
the others
let me be,
and walking
through the
still pall
stirred up
curlicues—
smoke chased
them down
inefficiently.
In the
eye-bulge
of the blank
TV screen
shone ample windows
and I,
mirrored, neaped
in bed.
I was free and could not tell anybody.
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