(I wrote this after a disastrous gas leakage occurred in Vishakapatnam, India, which killed at least 11 people, with 800 others taken to hospital. As the country eased its lockdown-restrictions, it is possible that the factory may not have followed nor had the capacity to follow the re-opening protocols. Similar cases have been reported from a paper mill in Chandigarh and a thermal power station in Neyveli.)
early morning & the fog
doesn't smell like fog.
if they wake up they'll know
they might still be sleeping.
they probe the air
for yet another invisible enemy
but this time people stuck indoors
is a fear not a cure.
they hope the boy sat down first
& then gently laid his head on the rock.
they watch a policeman hurricane
his handkerchief over a woman
crumpled like a kicked tent.
two girls hold onto each other
as they tumble, wondering
what taut shape can two dots make.
a woman in a heart of blue
collapses mid-sentence,
throat sewed by gas threads.
on the footpath a red man
wants to swallow the limp body
of his girl to swaddle her
in his own shell for safekeeping
while the storm passes.
a woman falls back under the weight
of her own child in the back
of an ambulance, by its window
someone calls someone
& forgets what to say.
they wonder who they are who say
walking into death is like falling
into deep sleep.
it's all the waking up all at once.
the government has announced compensations-
one crore for the dead, ten lakhs to those
on ventilators, one lakh to the hospitalized,
ten-twenty thousand for the affected residents
& lost livestock.
the communists blame the capitalists.
nationalists blame the industrialists.
oppositions blame the ruling.
the village blames the city blames
the state blames the country blames
the world blames the volatile nature
of existence but the storm rages on
like ghosts overwriting other ghosts.
the firm says the situation is under control
& they're investigating the extent of damage.
thanks.
meanwhile, early morning, a boy walks out
thinking the sirens sound like now-now-now-now
& finds the wheels of a crashed bike
still spinning & the arms of the body under it
pointing to a rock & he staggers & his wonder
whether birds drop from the sky when they die
might just be answered & he staggers & the stars
rubber duck through foggy heavens
& he staggers & he staggers & then.
~Ajay
8/5/2020
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
