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Poetry—Ritamvara Bhattacharya


Off the page, sliding or

I brush or don’t see

you, but without

you, so cold, colder

than stooped-by-age

shoulder, oh flesh, hand,

Love, come turn my page.

My love,

are you a bird reviving in a summer field?

Was it the lark ascending that you heard,

a ghost among its shy-hearted tunes?

Yes. I heard the lark escaping, too.

I have lost my spectacles. Is the book I was reading

still open by the side of our bed? Treat it as a bookmark

saving my place in our story.


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