Poetry at Sangam



The Bag of Plums by Ravisha Mall

the shy boy
at the end of my street
smiled at me today..
extended his hand
and quietly offered me
a bag of juicy plums…

and in his lowered eyes
I saw the price
that he wanted in return
for the fruit dripping
with summer promises..
his gaze
raised to my face..
fell down to my heaving breasts
down my torso
further down
to the half exposed thighs…
and then again ascended
to meet my stare..
asking me wordlessly
whether the bag of plums
would suffice

leaving the extended hand ignored
I began the labor
to make him see..
the worth of desires
plucked with urgency
from the low hanging branch
of an unsuspecting tree…

meet me under the rainbow’s arc
where those abandoned roam
the streets through night and day,
looking for the half ripped souls
running on a playing field
levelled flat to a fault
…and where we’d walk
on an equal footing
with slow steps and talk
of nightmares with gnawing questions
and unfinished quests
and the fragility of the shoulders
on which the moral high ground rests.
fingers entwined
we’ll stroll into the night..
two beings
no more than flesh and blood
and hearts filled with trepidation,
we’d lie in the field
beyond right and wrong,
watching the setting sun…

and while I wordlessly
said this in return of his expectant stare,
something darker
replaced the wanton care..
with a frown he pulled back
his hand holding
the dripping bag,
with juices of the plums
now starting to slowly rot…
he turned around walked away
as my rumbling stomach asked
whether the plums would have been worth it,
and my bruised soul whispered
they would not.