Of Dying Alone
This bedraggled apartment will walk with me on my final journey, detach itself from its hard imperatives, stick its hands outside its windows to carry the accoutrements for the final enthroning;
Then it will be scrubbed of life and death, signed off to another tenant whose name I will never know, my things will find their way to landfills, or begin new lives with grimy handed strangers, whose touch will erase my fingerprints with an uncomprehending finality;
I considered writing my name on books as if read aloud later, it would be a call, a breath, a vain pretence at continuity, but between new furniture and pictures that puncture the fresh paint, the house will begin to forget, one dog-eared corner at a time;
Then a few days later, the moon will slip in through the tamarind tree, and lie on the sill in fallen squares, where we used to read poetry, dissolving silver dreams in bottle after bottle of cheap wine;
But the moon is used to disappearances, his being only a promise of his absence, how long before he shamelessly begins to court another on the cold tiles of my living room floor.
Rajani Radhakrishnan is a poet from Bangalore, India.