by Bakul Banerjee
In early spring, pink petals of magnolia
blanket the greening lawn of the quadrangle
lined by ancient buildings of the university,
fit for the wedding walk of a new bride,
or a coronation march for queens and kings,
now incognito, in denim and fleece garb.
Through tall French windows, the faint scent
wafts into her high-vaulted office mingling
with the smell of books on shelves, archiving
everything about the earth goddess.
A fat tome on mineralogy sits on the top shelf,
ready to fall on someone’s head like a rock.
Petrology books rub shoulders with those
on heat and mass transfer attempting
to explain rumblings underground.
Flat real estate of ancient tables and chairs
is covered with stacks of computer printouts,
containing Fortran code and satellite datasets.
Rolls of maps stand sentinel in cardboard drums
competing with the upright pink hair rollers
on the ledge, left behind by an unknown girlfriend
of a past grad student. The precious vellum maps,
thin and curled, like skins shed by snakes, slouch
around on the rusting desk. She designs equations
feeding them to a mindless, faraway computer.
It draws maps plotting her secret stories.
