Now I Know Days Of My Hassle Have Begun Poem by Subhadip Maitra

A death, which was for us,
by Broughams wheel under the foggy gas lamp,
and resurrecting like pious murderer Raskolikov
– it was denied to him.

He thought to keep on your bosom’s cleft,
spine of poem and turn pages,
on your skin, like spotted clothe,
will shiver warmth of the words.

but winter evening
does not have any hue, while the old garret waits
for the darkness to pounce.

See the inert body of poetry
killed by calculated math sleeping on my table
like your unmindful scarf left with me.
Now it lies upturned, like a
chloroformed frog
to cease under my gloves,
and he has not learned the trick of begetting.

I remember the silk scarf,
flakes from cigarette wrecked it
ink from my pen wrecked it
absence of your neck, shoulders, breasts, wrecked it

now I know days of my hassle have begun.