Neem Tree
My mother often says, the neem tree standing tall
as dignity arouses in her a sense of relief. I think
by this she means the sways of it like attempts to
join the two broken ends of the cosmos. Like keen
acts of kintsugi on split jars of promises. The comings
goings of sparrows, pigeons, crows, bees, butterflies
on it give her soul the nearness into astonishment
for things that tune gravity of stress to zero. The
becomings of it as the door of heaven after dawn
light runs through its shapes. Like a found beat
in an almost silent pulse. Unsure what to call a tree
that serves the purpose of contentment I pressed my
body against it and hugged like my delicious beloved
as dignity arouses in her a sense of relief. I think
by this she means the sways of it like attempts to
join the two broken ends of the cosmos. Like keen
acts of kintsugi on split jars of promises. The comings
goings of sparrows, pigeons, crows, bees, butterflies
on it give her soul the nearness into astonishment
for things that tune gravity of stress to zero. The
becomings of it as the door of heaven after dawn
light runs through its shapes. Like a found beat
in an almost silent pulse. Unsure what to call a tree
that serves the purpose of contentment I pressed my
body against it and hugged like my delicious beloved
March / April 2023
Purbasha Roy is a writer from Jharkhand India whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Channel, SUSPECT, Space and Time Magazine, Strange Horizons Pulp Literary Review and elsewhere. Roy attained second position in the 8th Singapore Poetry Contest. She is a Best of the Net Nominee.
Art: Aiyana Masla. Madre. Watercolor and ink