The Sea has no Funeral rites
By Sabyasachi Roy
The boys who vanished
never knew the sea had its own caste.
The shoreline's a sly thing—
sells you salt,
then sends you back
as a headline typo.
Their mothers still rinse floors
with silent howls,
hang wet hope on clotheslines,
pray to TV anchors
instead of deities.
No coffin,
just algae on a slipper
washed ashore
like a bad apology.
And the sea—
still claps its endless hands,
celebrating someone else’s feast
as the dead
forget their names.
Sabyasachi Roy is an academic writer, poet, artist, and photographer. His poetry has appeared in Viridine Literary, The Broken Spine, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Potomac, and more. He contributes craft essays to Authors Publish and has a cover image in Sanctuary Asia. His oil paintings have been published in The Hooghly Review.