Oct/Nov 2014 Poetry

Two Poems

by Pooja Garg Singh

Artwork by Susan Klebanoff

Artwork by Susan Klebanoff


You were in ICU. I was cutting ladyfingers
on my chopping board, slicing them lengthwise

removing their heads exactly 7955 miles away. I know
I see it on Google maps everyday. There you are—

An octagon marked by a blue arrow, which I imagine
digging deep into your room, into your TV blaring blue

Today it was silent when I called you
You were silent too. You were sleeping I was told

You slept like that for ten more days
My phone did not wake you up

When it finally did, on eleventh day
I heard your voice like water

pushing its way over jagged stones
Crackling like a telephone connection gone bad

A connection I am still trying to restore
after ninety-eight days, after being told I need to hurry



There was no umbrella. When I woke up
with a start at the sound of thunder

I realized it was time to pick you up
from the bus stop. It started to pour

as I rummaged around the closet
looking for umbrella, anything

to prevent you and me from getting wet
But I didn’t find it. And as I ran soaking

—and terribly late—I wondered why
I had waited so long, losing precious time

looking for that umbrella your father took with him
when he moved away with his things last week.


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