A love letter
I inscribe
on a postcard
with pictures
of poetry books…

I hide it between
the pages of
a Dostoyevsky novel*
dark and disturbing
like Rogozhin’s passion
or Nastasya’s moods…

Winter smells
almost of mint —
our Proserpine
has gone underground
leaving her garden
for Myshkin to lose
his sanity to love
in the coldest
of woods…
                                             ~ Jagari Mukherjee

                                              Kolkata, India