|Jan/Feb 2010 Poetry|
Since the boy died, she's been haranguing
Priests, witches, doctors and Gods of various faiths
(But not Buddha who sends bereaved mothers
On a wild goose chase only to tell them
Their grief isn't unique)
She'll have you know
He was twelve and cheerful, especially
On his way back from school in the monsoon
She watches him splatter about in shallow puddles
Secretly. Then, he's swallowed alive
In one hungry, smelly gulp
Someone stole the manhole cover, she supposes.
There he goes, down the drain
And to think just a moment ago
He was walking on water.