Satya Dash
POETRY BY SATYA DASH
Conspiracy Theory
The dog’s piercing howl cannot puncture
tyranny. But his showboating bark trims
the minister’s deep slumber. In one
of the country’s most celebrated
residences, the hour is loveless,
excruciatingly opaque. The pillows
in the house moan soft just when
an angel lands on the roof.
His hirsute body is bound by broken
wings. He doesn’t have a purpose yet. Whatever
he does here becomes gospel: to be laid
out as a chapter in the orientation handbook
for the undergrad syllabus of promising future
angels. He enters the bedroom, caresses
the minister’s snoring face. It’s difficult to say
with any certainty why the minster doesn’t
resist. His political career suggests he is a man
of retaliation and swift onslaughts. The bed
is strewn with the angel’s grimy feathers
as he bounces with delight on the spring
mattress. Tender milky geckos on sills
witness his unprecedented thrill
as the minister lies oblivious, his mouth
gaping. When the angel leaves, the night bleeds
soft light through the bathroom door.
When the minister wakes up to piss, he ejects
a stream of flowers. This anomalous
condition spares him no respite till he tenders
his resignation two days later. His understudy
assumes the vacant position. When folks
on the street are interviewed, some say
they saw a huge bird like creature with brown
wings hovering over the parliament at dawn.
The journalist omits this from his big cover
story. The angel shows up at the journalist’s
place that night. This time with dapper red
wings. The journalist offers him a drink
of single malt whiskey. Both are drunk by
the time the angel leaves. The wings turn
brown in the scabby moonlight. The journalist
has secretly recorded some of their
conversation. He decides to save this
evidence for a rainy day. Halley’s comet
was last seen in 1986. It hasn’t rained here since.