A Note from the Guest Editor

The fire warned that the wind is ill at ease,

and the sigh of the sea exhales longingly for the warmth of the sun.

The crumbling earth collapses in grief, mourning the browning leaves,

shorn in the sable of another season turned around.

 

Goodbye little father, and to what you left plucked

from the branches of a pinery full of blight.

Borne of blithe barriers.  Bored of lithe longing.

Thank you, Naani, thank you jaaji, thank you.

 

You are the vessel that defied the settled decline of easy goodbyes.

I was devastated by the wealth of an unknown when,

where we ate and we drank more than anyone could.

I read hungry you were hurt and we left the table clean.

Alone on our own thinking about what we need and what we breathe.

 

The histrionics of you always kept me captivated

distracted and entertained.  Never sure of a pretend at play,

positions of charm and lightning, flashed something kinder

than the plain pain of an empty head.

 

Our shadows have gone and left us behind, taking off somewhere beyond the horizon line.

They’ve gone back to yesterday and that time when nothing was certain

and the gray mist of memory fills pockets of light with shapes of familiar bodies

laughing and smiling at flashes of promises of what could have been.

 

You were afraid of the age and I was, too.

I thought of me small and you smaller still

tiny hands and fingers entwined on a playground

walking around following you close

so you wouldn’t fall.