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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s