Prartho recites one of her poems.
He’s finally stopped,
the boy in droopy socks
and runny nose,
stretched-out sleeves
of his sweater flapping
like dilapidated wings.
The one who between
Bombay and Singapore
moaned and writhed
in the aisle
like a rain cloud.
He broke when we
lifted off from Seoul,
drenching us in sobs
until we were beside
ourselves, watching him
stagger within the squalls
of grief, falling down drunk
with them. But now,
suspended over
the dark Pacific,
he falls still.
His father is peeling
an orange, holding it up
in the solitary reading lamp,
where it glows like a planet
not yet named—a radiant world
the father breaks open
and divides between
himself and the boy,
one glistening section
at a time.
Poem by Prartho from her book ‘Call from Paris‘ – prarthosereno.com
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