Siddharth Dasgupta
IN HUMAN LIGHT
This house is made of beautiful bones.
They creak whenever a limb moves,
like the ache of the earth when trying
to recover inherited soil. They moan
in the quiet elegance of silent movie
stillness, whenever the weather begins
to feel the seasonal tremble—like when
summer dances in humid light; when
winter swells into its starlight shimmer.
To walk on these floors is to step
on skin, so you tread lightly, as though
you were walking on forest ground,
making sure each leaf is left unhurt,
lest its veins erupt in the dialect
of a listening, breathing God.
This house is made of beautiful bones.
Each screech, each whisper, is meant
to be an embrace—of remembered
earth, remembering the ones it loves.
Each moment a door groans open,
a window flutters like a lost serenade,
a drape drapes itself around the absent
words in a conversation, is that embrace
—it’s the earth remembering, and you,
holding on, in the absentias of love.