[in the house of my father]

the burning he said started within
and I didn’t understand
but saw my own flames grow, till
asked he said, finally
love was to blame

I saw then the smell
of old cotton, worn now to threadbare
emotions, spent to realise
that it was not easy
to disengage

Now the sight of him
a frail wisp of white animated
by star gaze
a temple’s cadence apart
from my own karma
voicing words
retold anew, perhaps softer.

this house is familiar again
stripped bare of the fiction
for a war at bay
sarong folds now relaxed
too weak to hold, too strong to care

here, now,
calculating time and space left
to see what a world
come next
after this blood, after his blood,
is to smile

books now ageing too
first caressed and given
to no mirror, no shade, no one
Like himself

And yet, this familiar punkah knows
better storytelling
refracting reflections, this light now
together we pass
casts shadows
though not ahead.


One thought on “[in the house of my father]

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