In the funhouse mirror, stuck in those infinite births, I see the distortions of me.
Fairground grass eats my ankles, so do the ice follies and other narcissus.
I touch the glass; it gurgles, streams a river of whisky; under his distilled breath the ticket man says that I can cross it but for that charges will be extra.
This year too, I may not dare.
–
Kushal Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe