DEBMALYA BANDYOPADHYAY

Turning a mirror 

As a tree I am ordinary wood
as a son, a found block of gold

a flock of birds flying south 
parting the evening’s hair

I branch my hands into 
chlorophylled fractals

curve my answers into 
Yes. Oh, the boomerang

of love, the fall of fruit,
the severed ethic of yes.

Tongue rooted down 
the throat, drinking in 

wish, word, woodwind 
disobedience scurrying,

carrying secret. I stash secrets 
under a blushing pile of leaves. 

Please, let my hands forget
how to set something on fire,

how foliage answers to flame.
I want to grow beyond the idea

of myself as a blessing expands
through generations. I just want 

certainty stretching green in me 
a year at a time. It’s all I’ve wanted.