written by: Dilip Mohapatra



You invite me home for
some long pending conversations
across the table and
over a cup of soup
that you specially prepared for me
spiced with spite in bloom
tied up in a bouquet-garni
plucked from the bitterest of herbs
that you carefully grew in
your garden
with seeds of abhorrence
that you had preserved since ages
and on which you had sprayed
the most malicious toxins
to ensure their luxuriant growth
and perpetual potency
and you generously sprinkle
the seasoning of repugnance
and serve it to me
in a heavily cracked porcelain bowl
held together with
a glue cultivated from
blood that still binds us together.

I take a sip of the soup
with a spoon made of unbaked clay
and clear my throat
to answer all your questions
but then I find my tongue rigid and brittle
and my voice gone missing
lost for ever.

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