Such a huge, beautiful sky
Now that the mountains have all
Called in sick.

Plains where valleys were,
Seas withdraw as if in retreat;  
Defeated armies of

Timelessness. Wake of
Soil and stone. Such a
Huge, all embracing heaven  

Not even looking down.
And now, enter her, as I make
Myself comfortable with

My new life of treatments and
A violently shortened lifespan;
The one I always loved from

Within the shadows.
Willing me to live.
Caring.

A sleeper angel deployed to
Hold the holder;
Double-wing-cover from

The snow. Old love unspoken.
The kind that makes hills run for
Themselves.

Steady and unquestionable;
Tectonic shifts between hearts
Running out of

Tic-tocs and bass lines.
Plains where valleys were. She
Fills craters with her presence

In the room.
Never my girl; always my girl.
Sleeper angel activated.

I see why the seas withdraw.
No wonder the mountains called
In sick.

She raises solar storms with her little finger;
Conducts atmospheric changes with
A sigh.

Ode to a Norwegian mother.


How did you get to be so strong?
I shake my head in disbelief
At how she carries gold and grief
All day; all night-time long.

A silver crown upon her hair;
Those strands of grey now shine.
They speak of struggles; mother's
Fears. I wish that hers were mine.

I ask her: "Share that weight with me.
I know your legs are worn and sore."
But men have tried and failed before;
She says: "It's mine, just leave it be."

She'll pick the sun down from the
Skies. She'll sing until the ocean cries. 
She'll shift the planets all at once,
To clear a path for her two sons

To rise as Kings of Time and Space, 
And guide this place from guilt to
Grace. She raises them to save the day.
I say: Let's not get in their way.

I head out at twilight
only to return each dawn,
wading the muddied waters
of my youth, and mysteries
of a history misremembered,
or wishfull, wistful memories,
wanting to revisit in dreams
those things that defy the laws
of physics, yet knowing I can't
go back, and each breath I take
reminds me forever of that fact.

When winds at night on windows roar
wax runs out dies candle's flame
you would hear a knock upon door
a familiar voice calling your name.

Don't respond nor open the eyes
the voice is keen over winds' howl
grows it louder its pitches rise
scaring even the brave barn owl.

Pull the blanket up your head
you are safe so long you hide
lie dead quiet not move on bed
with mom asleep by your side.

Between the pause your fears mount
if is a chance to be found out
one two three the calls you count
but count it right leave no doubt.

Three times the voice would call your name
for it has no power to do any more
but move onto where dies a candle's flame
and a child is awake behind closed door.

I go back to that place

Through the green door
Enter the red brick house

Mikhu is still the little fairy
My eyes look for
And still my shyness
Forces me to look away
In her mother's presence

In the faraway attic
She furtively cooks me a meal
We make love
That brush our skin faintly

When I come out
She stands at the green door

Then upon the here
She is no more

After fifty years
I slipped into the school.

Madame Bela was visibly pleased
The classroom was too empty
Now I've one to do maths with

No less happy was Auntie Aloka
My favorite student is back
She lifted me up and said with a kiss
So vacant felt my class of English
Without a boy from olden times
Sweetly singing nursery rhymes

My eyes searched her and before long
Miss Jaya spoke in her softest tongue
I'm so glad to see his face
Sans him Bengali class was all emptiness

And there he was the only Sir
Amiyo Baboo the sports teacher
Isn't this the boy never won my trust
For always being in every race last

Fifty years haven't changed a bit
Either their age or their spirit
And surely the fun was doubly more
When I stood before the school mirror.

Last night I woke up
to the light of 1000
dead children from other
places where faces have
forgotten how to smile
in ***** white shirts
and smudged skirts
holding up lanterns
like lost miners looking
for answers in a dark hole.

For her
he was always the man
on the other side of the table.

He was fond of it that way
so he could see her face
read the shades and lights
crack jokes through the grim times
when on the table was little
brimmed plenty in their hearts
and her tears when flowed
were not of unfulfilled needs
but a happiness she couldn’t grasp.

She doesn’t know
what she misses is love
or a mere habit.

She only knows
food doesn’t taste the same
without the man
on the other side of the table.

I still carry the Sunlight of childhood
stashed in a jar on a shelf in the kitchen
where my mother teases her sons
and bakes apple pie in the oven
while washing laundry in a twin tub
she has to hold down as it tries to take off.
And I can hear her voice following me
with warnings and threats of admonition
as I go out into the big playground of the World
with all the free Sunlight a child can handle.

On the day
she turned to dust
she asked the wind
to be her friend
and it picked her up
and ran her
through the fingers
of it's hands
and it poured her
into pockets
and whispered
to hold on
and before the
church had emptied
they were gone..