Sarah Das Gupta

I’m stacking empty shelves,in an empty Superstore.Between the empty spaces,I see a strange old manmopping the black and white floor. Slowly the spaces are filled,baked beans, peas and peachesblock out my view of the aisle.Still, I hear the swish of the mopon the shop’s filthy floor. With my empty trolleyContinue Reading

In the House only soundA few notes of Chopin in the nightVoices echo and drift in old wallsImprisoned perhaps for centuriesA dog whines from the atticThe sound wavering, plaintiveWater’s still running in the old pantryA skipping rope thumps insistentlyHigh above on the nursery floorTennis balls thud on ghostly racquetsIn tournamentsContinue Reading

I see her now, raking the firewith an old brass poker,sparks fly up in protestat such brazen intrusioninto their warm,drowsy dying. She is afraid of death,avoids any tv murder,or prolonged, fatal illness.Drawn out, death bed dramas,occasions to put the kettle on,to rake the fire to ashes,to put the cat out,Continue Reading