Sunday 15 August 2021

Anushree Bose, Poetry 2021 Featured Writer

Sons Afar 

I wash my face

along the river's bruised lip, 

carrying blood of those

split open by war.

I dream of undulating 

paddy fields from homeland

with eyes wide open

by the moonlit minefields.

Seven seas away

bent over a bowl, my mother

is slicing gourds 

slender as river snakes. 

Rolling her tongue,

as tireless as worn prayer beads 

felt in aching fingers.

Let him live, God, she pleads, 

take me instead!

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