The Blind Stretch of Land by Kushal Poddar

Published by

j re crivello

on

The movements of the clouds

and the sudden bursts of the Sun

punctuate this minefield morning.

I wave to your mother moving her

wheelchair down the ramp.

Walking is a nostalgia. She often says.

Your father went to the war. War

came to your mother. You often say.

I deliberate on whether I should tell

your mother that a barn owl sits

above her head under your balcony.

The clouds move. One moment it

is blind; in the next it regains its vision.