poems by Babitha Marina Justin

Flamingo Dance  

                                                          

 

 Tundra

 

Every
time my mother

  climbs up the stairs

      wonders about

          her mobile phone or

                her English note,

                     I want to pull

                            her branches down,

                         sit her on the floor,

                    fan her gold-

                 bronzed fire,

            nail her
warmth

      on the tundra

of my body-map.

 

 

 

A Leaf 

 

My
father shivers with

the chill, he’s past autumn,

brown
and brittle,

swaying
in the wind.

 

His
routines stem him

to
the branch, memories

plough
dry through him, they’ve

lost
their green and succulence.

 

He
pushes the pen,

ruffles
his feathers,

wavers
in the crisp

evening
air, which

came
all too suddenly.

 

He
doesn’t fight anymore,

he has written his story of loss

on
his crumbled, body-leaf.

He
hopes earth would read

 

it loud to the wind, picking

it feather by feather, tossing

up rot and loss , for all

the winging birds to
hear.

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