Favor

A poem by Achuthan Panikath

Tue Mar 10 2026

What is this box that restricts me?
I don't remember drawing these lines.
Yet they tighten as if they hate my pulse,
of cosmic will that barely knows
and cares for them still less —
yet it must define the edges,
or dissolve into irrelevance.

Like a movie without a review;
a movement without a scandal;
a teenager without a trauma;
a partner without a chain.

We search until we find the line
and call it true because we need it true.

Your qualm must ink the line I dare not,
and I must return the favor.