In Leaving

In an acquainted country, my death will come before

another. I’ll have lost everything and nothing; my house burnt,

photographs

buried near the sea – no longer the sea. There will be no

letters as testament.

My death, after you’ll have left long ago, will be quiet and

ambiguous

but striking. There won’t be many who will mourn –

there won’t be much to mourn –

but there will be memories of my leaving. I’ll have left everyone

ashes of my words to dissolve in water –

no longer water.

For a long while, I’ll have said nothing, and perhaps

in the wake of my absence, my life will have lost its meaning;

or I will have given meaning

to my absence. After me, there will be more

losses

but I won’t be a witness anymore.

Winter Rain

The windows at home shutting

out the cold. Even at noon. In the

bathroom, I can hear it tapping

at the ventilator. The water

in the pipes quite like the fruit juice

mother had kept in the fridge. She’s

spent the day in the kitchen trying

to keep it warm. Papa won’t be bothered

in his quilt. In my room, my blanket

is outlined by trees. Trees of wool. In my

hands. And a river, of gentle handiwork.

When it’s night, we’ll gather around a

table and decide it’s better to have dinner

in bed on such days. Nights. Mother

will still be in the kitchen. Her hands

doughed. Thawing. Her bones

ruddy. It’ll still be raining.

______________

Jayant Kashyap has published Survival (Clare Songbirds), Unaccomplished Cities (Ghost City Press) and Water (Skear Zines). His ecopoetry appears in StepAway, Magma and Ink Sweat & Tears. In 2021, Jayant was a winner at the Wells Festival of Literature and also shortlisted for the Poetry Business New Poets Prize.