Mrs. X's dying ballad in the time of corona




It was a shrivelling winter when Mrs. X met Mr. X,

Obviously, X could be the surname,

and Mrs. X was certainly not X till she met Mr. X.

The snow suckled their Sikkim trip, back at home

she thinks her lenten rose must be blooming,

Her dry cheeks flushed, swam in the moonlit nape of night

He holds the chai out to her,

with which she warms her hand and then the cheeks thankfully,

A creek of light though the orifices of the lamp post and,

alates swarming around them and their love.

In the bare blue dim light, there's nobody

And Mrs. X holds the photographs, postcards with her roped fingers:

The time, the snow, the life, the hot tea pulsating gulped down the throat – she remembers.

Dinner of two minus one, she folds her fingers

And then dips in the dal, how salty is it tonight?

That day from the hospital screen,

he sputtered a make-believe laugh

through the phone with the news of

no return for some Sundays and the days within

And she almost imagined his incisors grinning terribly

like a still stultified snowman;

The nights crouched in slow like a snail, and then fast like a fire with an obit,

Mrs. X’s hands frosted like the fish in their freeze long preserved and now possibly stale

for a dinner of two,

She creeps inside the blanket later in the sweaty, balmy summer night

While Mr. X's body securely and heavily wrapped in plastic,

emits no breath to the air,

She hums a lullaby in her sleep –

A love song most probably.