My Failing Eye                                                                                                   
Debsruti Basu

There is a manner 
in which things shape up, 
inside my head. 
Like well-paved roads, 
leading to fallen houses. 

I know all the stories.
I remember them with the precision 
of how they began — 
how each eyelash dropped a lie, 
or a truth, combining the two. 

And I have my endings, 
like curtains that were once lace —
holding up the window, 
like a body of its own. 

My hands lie folded, 
on my sterile chest. 
With no children to feed, 
neither to own,          

I sleep like an old nostalgia shop. 

But you, you remember to leave this city —
leave these walls, 
this village, nameless. 
For when the shutter finally falls down, 
don’t see your face, 
for sale —
crumbling within.