Poems by Satya Dash
Volume 2 | Issue 1 [May 2022]

Those were nights of spice. I was delighted to acknowledge
I am a fool. The plate, a beloved, resembling a Pangaea—on it,
      the confluence of butter chicken and boondi raita. You ordered
both without discussion, no hint of hesitation. That subtle smear
      of tomfoolery on your brow, quite sexy in hindsight. I licked
the plate clean, my fingers wry. The world passed us by
      like a big red bus at top speed. We said, we’ll take the next one.
We always had the extra hour up our sleeves, little bounties
      of minutes in our pockets, some spare seconds loitering
around the drawstring knots of our floral boxers. There
      were cigarettes of course to keep us busy. Smoke lingering
eternally on our cussing tongues. Lips, fiery and expectant
      for the next flood of hot thunder. We’d just moved
to the city for our first jobs. The anticipation of food
      propelled us through week after week. The carnage was set
aside for Saturday nights. We awarded the intestines a full day
      of recovery before heading to work on Monday. As we waited
for the food to arrive, we usually played Name-Place-Animal-Thing.
      The ‘thing’ — a matter of great contention, only resolved
by the resounding silence of our vigorous chewing. Such was our
      affinity for grotesqueries, we prized mid-meal our runny noses
from the extra heat of red onions, our sinuses cleared by embers
      of coriander chili chutney. We gave each other missed
calls all the time. We hardly spoke on phone, hardly spoke
      while eating, made little eye contact in cabs, didn’t believe
in high fives. The resonance never screamed out loud; it was primal,
      the conversation marvelously ascetic. The movie, like most great
things, ended with the audience wanting more. The screenplay, like
      any memorable gravy, left a metaphysical taste in my mouth. I saw
in dismay you had begun to moderate. I resisted asking the waiter
      another helping of that green chutney. You left the restaurant
beaming with a lover, arms full of cake and ice cream. I crawled
      out the backdoor with a packet of naan and dal makhni.