The Ides 


Chris says, "Still,

beware. It is the Ides."


I cross-check in the net

about the zones of our time,

distance between our fences.

I tell him that the carrots, 

winter crop once, cross 

the threshold of heat, 

that a rusty weathervane

sways pointlessly on my roof.


March spreads its wings

and for a jiffy we realise it has been 

here, and as it flies a swirl of wind 

tussles our hairs.


Still, it is the Ides.

I lock the knives. 

My wife makes love with the key.

We make a large salad

no one eats.


We call Chris. The phone rings 

as if noise travels through the cables 


under the sea and those have chinks.

Kushal Poddar