LatinosUSA

There used to be a wall
with a hook that anchored
my belongings. Some wet memories
have pickled over the years.
It’s raining, and my feet are
running to the backyard to
save grandmother’s pickle jars.
I know it’s too late, but I continue to
stand in prickly raindrops. My
wounds are wet, and I am shivering.
I am crying for the concrete floor, on which,
sat a folded towel holding her
steaming pressure cooker.
I have lost that floor
and steam. My coat is wet
and heavy. Where can I hang it?
I am feeling that kitchen,
hearing the simmering pressure
cooker, but I’m failing to grab it.
In my stormy cries, however,
I am being washed spotless and white.
All the fuss is being flushed
out. I am seeing through others
and finding conflicts funny.
I know grandmother is
gone and her wall has been powdered.
Anyway, I will find
some hook to hang my wet
belongings before the
Eternal call-off.

Copyright © 2025 Shailja Sharma
All Rights Reserved