Poetry: A Dot In The Death Toll, by Praniti Gulyani

 

my father is a bit of verse 

strangulated by the razor-sharp sentences

of political poetry, of news reports

that move forth, swaying to the metallic wind  

of a mechanized monotony

my father is a bit of thought 

that comes in, a bit of thought 

that goes out, a bit of thought that lingers 

for a while on family albums, on dry cheeks

and then, a bit of thought that disappears

like every other thought 

my father is ill-pronounced english 

strung together, with the crude touch of 

vernacular verses, the bitter-sweet flavors 

of abuse, like the sourness of a betel leaf 

my father is entangled in the numerals 

of their conversations, as they spend four minutes 

and forty-five seconds discussing the death-toll

and possibly, a millisecond or two extra 

when they mention the digit that he occupies 

''Forty seven thousand, eight hundred, sixty four. . . ''

my father is a mound of sand, beneath which 

a young boy lies a butterfly to rest,

a butterfly with wings, tenderly crumpled 

like a poem, which is good enough, but 

just does not satisfy him

my father is a gunshot 

tearing through the sky, shredding the clouds

disturbing my mother 

who sips chai and sings to the mountain 

making her drop her cup of chai

and making her hands shake

making her cheeks whiten 

making her fists tighten