war drama…
a curtain of fingers
over my baby’s eyes
plastic gun…
even the ants
stop and smirk
first uniform…
his shirt wrinkled
like my forehead
gunshot…
how closely connected
this bougainvillea
war memorial…
choosing the flowers
that seem to cry
cleaning his gun…
now I converse
with fallen dust
soldier’s boots…
the edges of his soles
criss-crossed with life
uniform pockets…
by a crumpled cigarette
bits of conversation
closing tombstone…
a curtain of fingers
over my eyes
Praniti Gulyani