Inner Voices

traveling backward in dark to meet my father I held the hands of my grandchild in broken dawn of random spring to collect the lost years of old house where we could not meet and he sat feet resting on the thighs in the valley of unwritten letters and thin silence, you left before I knew my thumb had your skin, climbed to despair I untied the knot and had a fatal, pure wound, which like a lantern still burns in the eyes of my offsprings unabated, the seeds and salt and bloodstained umbrella will cover the street SATISH VERMA