On tears and taxidermy

ii.

tears tasted salty

when i was little

sometimes i would inspect a drop

against the light-

the science behind it, i discovered:

warm when angry

cold when sad

somewhat-both when somewhat-both

or happy.

evaporation occurred in mid-flight –

between the wind and dancing trees, just imagine,

the changing hues when the storm built up

against the grilled sky at my grandparents':

invisible droplets collecting in our eyes

then draining from the corners as we sang nursery songs --

whatever science meant.

my eyes would catch the desperation of running passersby

looking for shelters under tall trees;

hurried images:

of wobbly rickshaws, baby-taxis,

the only hawai-mithaiwala in the neighbourhood,

other children on rooftops, a crow or two

against the current (of the wind),

and green chips wrappers.

my eyes would also collect the desperation of other faces

and my somewhat feelings

laced with unknown guilt and irony

which had no name.

my grandmother and those from her village would tell stories:

of flying roofs, mustard fields which would turn yellow in winter, sugarcane juice,

and end the note with details – drowned out

by the sound of mouths-chewing-paan –

seasoned with mentions of meals

that played tag with rain.

- 19 July, 2021

Rifat Islam Esha is a poet. For more updates on her work, you can follow her on Instagram: @rifatiesha