season of light
the terrace is empty,
except for the ghosts.
we keep the curtains shut,
but summer still,
trickles in,
like stolen nectar or (secret) love.
birds and hearts have fallen silent;
blind-folded, they fly through the forest,
the sunbird’s warmth as compass.
it has been seconds
or years
since we came here, tasting gold & forever
on our parched tongues.
forever tastes like forgetfulness.
some days, we hunt.
we wash our hands in pools or puddles
whichever we find first.
sometimes we claw
our way into the ancient mud
into the burrows of once golden-
white rabbits, & listen to the songs the hunters sang
before they left their caves to hunt.
we hunt the sunbird
whose burning heart keeps us alive.
when i finally find
the golden feather
& show it to you,
you kiss my blistered, blackened hands
into skin.
sometimes i think it is your kiss
and not the sunbird’s light
that my skin
longs
to breathe.
the day before you disappear,
there is dust in your eyes
& the trees grow impatient
& the earth begins to crack
& even our scalded skin
withers and melts into an orange-red
ecstasy
as the sunbird sings the song.
i gather the ashes in my heart,
pluck it out like a sunbird’s feather
& place it in a black box
in the corner of the sun-blistered
terrace.
i shut the curtains like we used to do
a thousand summers ago
to hide the shame of love.
without your kisses,
my skin has turned to stone.
sometimes when the sunbird
alights on my shoulders
pecking out my eyes
& chipping away my stone-skin
i remember,
the ghost of the bird we chased and buried
a million summers ago,
in exchange for our sordid sun-stained souls.
forever still tastes like ash.
Image Credit: Wikipedia
Archita Mittra: writer, editor & artist 
