Other than rereading my drafts this morning, this one by Zaffar Kunial:
From Empty Words
Meaning “homeland” — mulk
(in Kashmir) — exactly how
my son demands milk.
•
Full-rhyme with Jhelum,
the river nearest his home —
my father’s “realm.”
•
You can’t put a leaf
between written and oral;
that first A, or alif.
•
Letters. West to east
Mum’s hand would write; Dad’s script goes
east to west. Received.
•
Invader, to some —
neither here, nor there, with me —
our rhododendron.
•
Where migrating geese
pause to sleep — somewhere, halfway
is this pillow’s crease.
•
Now we separate
for the first time, on our walk,
at the kissing gate.
•
Old English “Deor” —
an exile’s lament, the past’s
dark, half-opened door.
•
Yes, I know. Empty.
But there’s just something between
the p and the t.
•
At home in Grasmere —
thin mountain paths have me back,
a boy in Kashmir.
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Hybrid Mode
