Poems by Shikhandin 

Abandoned 
​
Strange, that its owners left so suddenly.
 
Now the nest lies discarded. Shreds
of it dropped off by wind. Bits of it dissed
by its own tree. The nest changes. Its shape
remoulds. Its essence diminishes. Every day.
 
Perhaps the crows, habitual stealers of habitats,
had a go at it. Cocking an eager eye.
Perhaps mynahs recycled some of it, making
it almost unrecognizable. But a pigeon pair
looking for a home have snubbed it entirely.
 
Yet, until a week ago it was plump with life.
 
I used to hear them sing every day. But hardly
ever saw them. The tawny twosome with
their brightly ringed eyes. They were smaller
than mice. I saw them once weaving twigs.
In and out. Out and in. Then there were babies.
 
Now they are gone without a backward glance.
 
The home they had so lovingly built, and
raised their young in. As if it was nothing
more than their happy duty.
 
Buddhist birds, I wish I could be like you.
 
 
At the Turn of the Road 

Is it dusk already? The doves
on the electric pole must have gone home.
In here, your heart is bleeding away
into the pool of your unbearable solitude.
When did the eggs crack open?
When did their wings become dry?
The sun had laughed at you from behind his screen
of clouds. You had turned to face the wind
once, twice, thrice.
But the answers were always the same.
And now, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing
takes away the sharpness
of knives whittling down bones.
Soon, they will be gone. You will not
know the hour of departure when it comes,
even after the door has closed behind them.
 
Wake up
 
To the grass bending to receive
its daily pint of dew. To the road lying quiet
beneath the stampede of day. To last
night’s embers that still harbour
a spark or the hope of a spark. It is time
to go back to that last full moon, when
you had an urge to pluck the orb
fresh off the sky and place it on
your warm sticky tongue. White
as the flavour of spearmint gum,
and as cold as a slice of arctic ice,
melting slowly, radiating
 
                                         its aura around you.
 
This is the taste of solitude.
Its sweetness is divine. Its touch thinner
than a dove’s eggshell. Its scent
more delicate than a damselfly’s wing. And
its harmony is one that can never be known
in the company of constant love. 

Shikhandin is the pen name of an Indian writer. Her prose and poetry have won multiple awards and honours in India and abroad, including three Pushcart nominations. Her books are After Grief: Poems (Red River), Impetuous women (Penguin-RHI), Immoderate Men (Speaking Tiger), and Vibhuti Cat (Duckbill-PHI). Her sci-fi/speculative and literary works have been widely published worldwide. Her latest work is a speculative novella, The Woman on the Red Oxide Floor (Red River). Amazon Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/shikhandin
 
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