Geometry At Thirty Nine Poem by Mandira Mitra

At age nine, an exasperated teacher
Slapped me for being circle-obtuse.
None of his analogies worked and
The circle remained a mystery, a
Rag picker child seeking name
In the dead wastes of my imagination.
Other fumblings along corridors of linearity continued
Other fists upon blocked doors
Until an April evening well into its closure
As I relished my plants’
Parched thirsty eager necks craning to drink,
Leaves, shoots, buds, chlorophyll et al,
To lees my outpourings—
They were suddenly so much every much
Love-you-very-much You, who similarly sought,
And had, my hatred that parting summer noon
When I shook off my last leaf
Dead with the weight of a dying love
Feeding both our appetites—
It all came in a dizzying flash
So that’s a circle, like a parenthesis
Poised between no longer beating together hearts
Bridge from nowhere to nowhere
Seeking soaking seeking
That’s a circle.