Sambhu Ramachandran

between catastrophes. The death of his father
in a landslide that buried half the village
under its casual eccentricity

and that of his mother that will happen

one summer afternoon on her way back

from working in the field—something the police

will say is an accident, though her body

shall bear nail marks, scarlet and deep.

A boy licking vanilla ice cream

that dribbles down his hand in the maddening heat.

His tongue a wave of pink flesh, a slither,

then numb as the ice cream becomes a harsh

cold grip around his little throat. He holds

the cone aloft and fills it with the sun.

The world will swing into premature darkness

when he starts feeling hungry again.  

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