Urban Throat
by Anirban Acharya
The central city poems, slightly
curved at their edges, imagine
how the cattle keep moaning
sculpted in the habitual sun.
Trees vibrate, the sneaky subway
trains thread the streets together.
Filmed in slow motion, though,
everything stands still, like that
lone halogen necklace holding
hands. Mistrust in their nuanced
darkness like phlegm clogging our
acute, urban throats. All along our
floors, carpets are strained through
a neon breeze. After the prolonged
gaze of weeks, that thirst for river
water, a cloud shop brings serendipity.
The man who gets periodically mad
during festival time, is waving. Winds,
be calm, he shouts, cleanse our pain before
we give in to the storm. The rain is also
our patent alibi for running back to our roof-
top room, as if love must be approaching the
tip of my tongue. The thunders would be
pulling triggers before they scream.
Prostitutes have finished buttoning up their
males, parks are chatting each other up, love
is sweating sweetly in a two forty bus. I’m
getting wet in all three minds. I’m getting
wet from having to decide whether or not
to cross the streets. We are getting wet from
nothing specific that can reinstate our lives.
The rains turning sour on all four sides.
