all go to taste the gold distilled;
a dim and humid
shade for a slave
to brew inferno and blaze
sleeps and stays awake.
We know. We know nothing.
I imagine my father’s
grandfather’s father had
a lily white moustache,
gnarled hands, burnt when
his moonshine maker
struck a sober conversation
about his wife - a slave’s slave.
Where my imagination leaves
an arctic trail in a moist hole
a pair of eyes burn,
grass looks like the one
moving across the meadow,
and from a busted still
the steam of moon mash
seeks for an ancient thirst.
© Kushal Poddar
Kushal Poddar is editor of the online magazine ‘Words Surfacing’ He authored ‘The Circus Came To My Island’ (Spare Change Press, Ohio), “A Place For Your Ghost Animals” (Ripple Effect Publishing, Colorado Springs), “Understanding The Neighborhood” (BRP, Australia), “Scratches Within (Florida, USA)” and “Kleptomaniac’s Book of Unoriginal Poems(co-authored)”
