Poetry of Issue #7        Page 36

Tarnished Brass

In the tarnished brass
God's proposals are kept.
We unearth them much later —
my grandmother has given up the ghost;
the family settlement has gathered sediments;
autumn roils every plant outside the cold-frame;
we unlock the attic forged to be a private
temple where my grandmother left crumbs of her time;
down the wainscot a stream of water ululates;
a fat lizard stares at us; all argent has turned emerald;
in a brass container God's proposals are kept;
grandmother has left all of her flesh;
family settlement has struck peace;
autumn leaves scurry a chant across the terrace.
We do not know how to handle this past
where future returns every now and then.

  Kushal Poddar