On my mother’s first death anniversary

At four the morning was night.
A bird landed on a plastic sheet
Waking up too early for the worms
For other birds’ comfort on trees.
The tube light whined sorrowfully
Against Octavio Paz and certain poet
In the inner tube of my computer.
Mother would come with rice balls
In Sanskrit incantations and dhoti
Tied across my waist and thread.
All we lay stretched on the floor
Remembering her dead a year ago.
Night will soon be morning birds
Their noisy calls were like that time
When she laughed the last time.

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