The Flying Cage
I saw a flying iron cage, yes, the bars
were round as I saw the silhouette and there was an iron
desk in it and a chair of iron to sit on.
All the things were patterned as grills, so
I could see through them from my terrace as the cage flew
high in the sky. The night was dark around
the cage and I had no time to check whether any moon
gave its light anywhere. I had no time,
as I was busy calling my children from downstairs
to come watch that quaint thing with me. No, it was not
magic, the orange glow that showed the cage
to me below came from the fire from under
the balloon that lifted it. No, my children did not
join me to witness the spectacle and to make it complete as,
the man that sat at the desk just opened the door
of the cage
and jumped,
bungee style.
Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, translator and blogger born and brought up in Varanasi, India and now in exile from his city. His work originates at the point of intersection between his psyche and his city. He edits PPP Ezine.
Amethyst Review 