Written by
Chris Jones |
His name has been ghosted over the fence,
leaving an alias, burn, prison clothes.
I'm half the man, he says, not my sentence,
waiting on time that other people chose.
From their windows men sing out numbers, names,
hands to the grille light for the come-back call,
but words get lost, change allegiance, and blame's
out of their mouths, love's over the wall.
Later when I phone home and catch your voice
I think of slipping out to wind and rain,
to burning winter lights, and city noise,
to waiting on the platform for the train,
the slow bus climbing toward our terrace house,
and in that space, to reach you, say your name.
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Written by
Meena Alexander |
Mid-May, centipedes looped over netting at the well's mouth.
Girls grew frisky in summer frocks, lilies spotted with blood.
You were bound to meteorology,
Science of fickle clouds, ferocious winds.
The day you turned twenty-six fighter planes cut a storm,
Fissured air baring the heart's intricate meshwork
Of want and need—
Springs of cirrus out of which sap and shoot you raised me.
Crossing Chand Bibi Road,
Named after the princess who rode with hawks,
Slept with a gold sword under her pillow,
Raced on polo fields,
You saw a man lift a child, her chest burnt with oil,
Her small thighs bruised.
He bore her through latticed hallways
Into Lady Dufferin's hospital.
How could you pierce the acumen of empire,
Mesh of deceprion through which soldiers crawled,
Trees slashed with petrol,
Grille work of light in a partitioned land?
When you turned away,
Your blue black hair was crowned with smoke—
You knelt on a stone. On your bent head
The monsoons poured.
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