It was peculiar that Bovary, though he thought
continually of Emma, began to forget her face.

I read John Berger say
“Love treasures hands like
nothing else”, and immediately
Tried to think of her hands.

No, I don’t remember them at all.
What were they like?

Yes, they had “Taken, made, given,
Planted, picked, fed,
Stolen, caressed, arranged,
Offered, and,
Let drop in sleep.”

But what were they like?
No, I don’t remember them at all.
I try very hard
To summon an image,
Any image,
But all I can see
Is her collar bone.

 

…

Srisha Haridas hails from Bangalore and currently works, quite tritely, as a software engineer there. He seeks solace from the horrors of Bangalore traffic in poetry and staunch cinephilia. Is perpetually humming a Carnatic raga.