— Poems by Tuhin Bhowal
Volume 2 | Issue 1 [May 2022]
The Handpicked Peach
after Jane Hirshfield
The congruency of two buttocks upon a line—
Excess of pulp, yellow plump, a little bruised
Vellus-follicle skin thrusting her clawed wrists
Pink to violent-salmon; seed falling from one side.
Isostatic Adjustment, or Self-Portrait of the Body as Bubble Tea
First, a hearsay. Then, a circumference of mass. Black.
Soot & milk condensed in ampersands of ice—straws
& the eloquence of tea. Tapioca planetariums of sugar.
Bubbling on cashiers’ receipts at restaurants, Chinese,
Japanese or even Taiwanese (cold & starchy), my small
Spherical pearls not aspiring movement but motion.
Viscosity—the chance to jiggle air buoyed, garnishing the
Fluid like planets swirling approximately in space. No
Vortices for one tapered face, pulling—pulling the body
Only at the centre. Sago, konjac, coconut, cassava, lychee,
Mango, coffee, cream-cheese, grass-jelly, mung bean &
Of course, the brilliance of its three-billion-dollar industry.
Blowing always into a balloon. Falling,—becoming water.
But who objects to desire when you can slurp it:
I begin at the suction of your mouth, & end
In the vacuum of it. That’s a life—
The translucent blue jumbo prawns sear slyly
along the circumference of the frying pan
into a persimmon orange. The grease of butter
fizzing the only silence, hissing the empty kitchen.
Never lose your sizzle, says Jeremy on his channel
School of Wok, the pan stirring the fry in good
Asian cooking. The fly after hovering in the heat
like a dragon, flails and drops—A client
etherized as a patient with lube, reaching an
impasse on the massage table; rearing his head
every now and then. He settles further deep
into the teflon sizzling relatively in time
defying definitions, as something melts:
Is it not the garlic or fat, but what.—Where?