by Bakul Banerjee
The land is seared by last year’s prescribed
prairie burn. We walk gently, braiding
our footsteps on the muddy path, carved
out of rusty green grass and grey ash,
dotted with dandelions on patches disturbed
by the last trampling. We avoid anthills
unperturbed by the fire. It rained a little
last night. A green snake, startled,
slithers away from us.
Urged by the midday sun, moist steam rises
beneath our feet. The mellow sun of spring,
shines on us and on shooting star plants
hiding under measured shades doled out
by leafless trees above. Broken limbs
of dead shrubs are strewn around
like jumbled instruments resting
on a table in an operating room,
reminiscent of frantic attempts
to revive a patient.
Black seedpods are suspended on stems,
tall and burnt but still standing, pretending
to be tiny birds. I flick one. It blooms
like an instant flower spattering seeds in the air.
On a far-away field, a farmer flicks rice seeds
in ankle deep water. I step on an anthill.
An army of ants carries me away,
tunnelling through the soft dirt.
I surface thousands of miles away by the offerings to the goddess,
many brass plates with mounds of sugar
at the center dressed with flowers,
candies, and dates. What a feast! The thought
of beating the odds of being stomped I forget,
as hymns to Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth,
soar around me. Farmers meditate and seek
her blessings to protect their seeds
and rice fields from possible blights.
Nearby, a baby girl wails in distress.
I follow the sound to a dark corner.
An old woman pushes a handful of rice seeds
down her throat. Sharp edges of the seeds
will shred her delicate insides.
Sounds of conch shells and cymbals
drown out her desperate cry for life.
Like the earthen image of the goddess,
I am a powerless witness to this crime.
Scurrying away, I join the joyous crowd
outside and hide under the clay wing
of the white owl waiting to carry the goddess
away at moment’s notice, but, out of bad habit
of an ant, I bite the owl’s breast. In pain,
he flies away before the goddess can give
her blessings. The owl carries me
and the goddess over many valleys
and grey mountains. He is hungry.
In flight, I become a pesky mouse
and his food. I wiggle out of his sharp beak
and dive inside an empty barn hoping
for a quiet feast of wheat, millet and peanuts.
Only moldy cotton balls line four corners.
Wailings warn me. A farmer lies dying
on a stack of empty sacks of sterile
cotton seeds with a half full glass
of liquid pesticide nearby.
“Freedom from Monsanto! Freedom!
Freedom from “Terminator” seeds!”
Thousands scream outside.
Spring is the time to wait for slow
but final deaths. I relocate myself
as my friend touches my arm and points
to a crystal blue dragonfly.
Award-winning author and poet Bakul Banerjee, Ph.D. published her first volume of poems, titled “Synchronicity: Poems” in June 2010. Other poems and stories have been published in several literary magazines and anthologies throughout the U.S. She received the international Gayatri Memorial Literary Award for her contribution to English literature. Bakul has been featured in multiple Chicago area poetry events and presented workshops including one titled “Inspirations from World Poetry” at the prestigious Chicago Poetry Fest 2012. Currently, she serves as the chair of Naperville Writers Group. She received her Ph.D. degree in computational geophysics from The Johns Hopkins University, Maryland.
