Chain smoking sadness, slapped by time.
Winter doesn't freeze the pain.
There was one thing that
Mom wanted more than
anything else in the world:
It was to have a
picture of her
seven kids all together,
in one place,
at one time.
There was an age
difference of
23 years between the
youngest to the oldest,
and 1000 miles separating us.

In December of 1987
two weeks before Christmas,
I held a picture of
the seven of us all together.
I put it in the
right front pocket of
her navy blue blazer.
After the funeral,
we buried her with it.

The home is under
           the leafy tree.
The graveyard too
         is not far to see!

You were casual
in making bed of thorns
to collect the blood!

Fearless, light combs
the dark hairs of earth to
feel masculinity.

You rise from the
mangroves to print pattern of
wounds on the limbs.

You filter time.
Time filters you.
I catch the words.

The empty bowl
of a fakir betrays the fabric
of life, without seeking.

Mid winter I will ask-
the moon not to freeze.
Some sounds you will not hear.

Tearing the fog, I
wanted to teach you the language
of pain, becoming cold.

Like meteor of
a melting star, you were moving
away faster than light.