The Man Poem by Sanjib Saha

For one person, just one person, my heart aches so.

There was a man, sitting under a black plastic canopy in the market, on a high stool, his wife expertly cutting fish with a knife, pulling out the guts. The man sat below, removing the scales from the live fish, pouring water into the pot for a bit of oxygen.

A little oxygen to prolong the fish's life, though they would eventually die. He wasn't a leader or a benefactor, yet the smell of fish scales lingered in the air.

One day, the writing on the wall of his canopy suddenly stopped, and his wife accidentally cut her hand with the knife, mixing her blood with the fish's. Days and nights pass.

Before the darkness deepens, leaves fall, coloring the ground, from the Kadam tree to Canada, in the indifferent evening of autumn.

Then, you see, in the same black plastic canopy, another woman sits on the high stool, cutting fish throats, blood spilling on the ground. Her husband pours water into the pot for a bit of oxygen, knowing the fish will inevitably die.

The man is now a void, speaking of the impermanence of human existence.