Writing Where Your Hand Has Been and Other Poems

Poulami Somanya Ganguly

Materials / Methods

Some days the water refuses 

to wash my hands. Blood samples

were drawn from the abdominal

aorta for determination of plasma

calcium. The cauliflowers were so

white we almost ate one raw. 

Parathyroid extract was administered.

Parathyroidectomy was performed

under ether anaesthesia. And still

no letters. Flat portions of the 

parietal bones were cleaned with gauze. 

I practise speaking with everyone

even the mice. Pooled slices were dried 

on filter paper and weighed. Lake’s frozen.

Bone slices were incubated. The flasks 

were chilled. I am due next Thursday. 

Flasks were shaken for one hour to 

permit complete absorption. No longer 

myself. The buffer in the flask was 

transferred into a 15 ml centrifuge. 

Mornings alone. Bone slices were 

rinsed repeatedly with cold water.

My hands never free. The acid-

soluble portion of bone was analysed.

I can hardly hear. Slight quenching 

was routinely corrected. breathing.

Writing Where Your Hand Has Been 

For a while I can do no more

than run my hands over your letters, feel

each stroke: how the paper remembers

the pressure of your hand, how it folds

at old lines. Obedient leaf

where I am afraid to leave new marks, 

but at the slightest touch the surface 

cracks, your words turn brittle.

        I learn to anticipate

changes in temperature, humidity, even

light— it’s not unlike tending to

a body. Every day I come into this

room, draw the blinds,

block out the sky’s blank page.

*

Two nights before the full moon you cannot remember your name you search 

for it among the dimmed-down stars you look for it inside the newspaper-lined 

drawers among your pills wondering why you did not write it down next to the 

dosage we are of little use we come to you our mouths full of mother mother

grandmother the hands helping you out of your nightie tinkle with glass

bangles you refuse to eat what use is food to one who can no longer remember

how to pick the correct option from a plate full of identical grains of rice the 

dal just washes the inside of your mouth clean like soap somewhere between two 

and three am you fall once again into the softness of a lap the sound of 

younger voices laughing among trees and you recognise your grandmother

by her voice she calls to you calling you a word you haven’t heard in years

At the Slightest Touch

The first time I recognised writing– one iron beam, bent, leaning against another– I was on my father’s shoulders. So much I’d like to tell you that everything’s getting mixed up. Once upon a time, this letter. তুমি খুব ক্লান্ত ছিলে ব'লে কিছু বললাম না। Your words in my writing. এখানে এখন দশটা বাজতে ৭ মিনিট বাকী। Time is blue and infinite laid out like this. Someone might have picked it up. Like the regular heartbeat of keys. I wrote to you on the twentieth but have you not received it. তোমার কাছ থেকে চিঠি না পাওয়া পর্যন্ত মন খুবই খারাপ। Something must have happened. Should I worry about temperature, direct sunlight, uncontrolled humidity. How much scrutiny can intimacy survive. বটগাছ যতক্ষণ থাকে তার তলায় পথিক ছায়া পাবেই, বটগাছ নেই শুধু আমার। This self-indulgence that is often misunderstood or misnamed. Love. তারপর লিখেছো আমি এখন স্বাধীন– When all my life has been spent waiting for the day when you fly away.