All that isn’t


By Mouli Banerjee

There’s your world,
crumbling to dust,
it’s gravel, gravel: you grovel.
Then there’s mine—
tiny green leaves with a tree’s audacity.

All that is in between is all that isn’t.
Or might just as well not be.

I have dreamt of forests that rush at the sea
and rivers that slash it blue.
What garden? What forest? You ask.
But you’ll cut the trees down someday,
you tell me,
for,
where else will the apartment be?

And your eyes are full of love.

One thing today and the next another.
Kings of deception with faces of air,
My dreams are hypocrites like that.

I have decided that I now dream
of electric chimneys in my kitchen,
of automatic washing machines,
of regular romantic dinners and
of insurance policies for us.

Then maybe, I can have flower pots in the balcony.

I am the champion of consolation prizes
And being happy is a coat I sometimes wear.


About the poet:
Mouli Banerjee
 is currently pursuing her master’s degree in English Literature from St. Stephen’s College, New Delhi. Amateur poet and poetry enthusiast, Mouli loves travelling, singing, and writing fiction among others.

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