Poetry

Saronda

(in response to Frances Leviston’s Scandinavia)

I think I could be happy there, my safe house, where I stood once
under the gnarled neem, searching for the rosary pea, 
or saw my form reflected in the asymmetry of that mango tree,
mid-point to Nargol. The wild rose and the marigold wafted away

as the breeze carried our cart along. Waters wound up our legs
on the casuarina-dotted sand. Shrieks and whispers, from gulls to girls,
strip the air of its stillness. Grinding-stone and pickle jar, remind me of
all that’s slipped through our fingers. I could live, I could thrive on

fluffy rice flour spheres, Bombay duck sizzling on wood fires,
and udder-fresh milk; idling on the verandah. Even enjoy
a slothful sleep in that house, its magnificence marred,
not broken; so what if it’s halved?

Zarin Virji