Prithvijeet Sinha
Grief crawled out from under the rock.
It always does.
Now I understand;
the varicose veins,
the heavy breathing,
the conservation of handprints,
deeds, a will
and the daily ‘evening walks’;
they were all prompts
before the final words,
before the curtains fall.
How could I have not noticed?
How was the air not stale
or damper around sister June?
How did she comport
such angel-like bearings
even a week before?
I had cared for her.
I had wanted her to know
I was making my birth town
my permanent home.
I wanted to ring in her birthday which she was always so coy about
in the last five years.
It’s all coming back to me now.
All the manners
of an undefined grief
tormenting this poem’s last letters.
