By Mandira Pattnaik

It’s like holding hands, and standing on the edge of playa,

ready to take a step, leap and drown in sand.

The rustle of dried weeds on fallow land

is a funeral song

corrupting the silent mourning

for acres of healthy paddy

since dried

for want of rain.

The family of four — chained to hopes, fettered in prayers,

looks to god

on the shimmering shelves of cotton clouds.

Who or why, they

coast across the inverted void

leaving them to

negotiate a ruthless fate?

When the heavens yield, the meadows and

grass are trampled.

All colors are ruined, except a torrent

as white as white as white.

But no one’s left to sigh, marvel at

the shimmer on the pond’s surface

other than a maniac or a fool of a vulture,

mistaking the bones for silvery glitter.

Mandira Pattnaik is an Indian writer and poet. Nominated for awards including the Pushcart, her work has been featured in over a hundred journals. Poems have appeared in Prime Number Magazine, Eclectica, Not Very Quiet, West Trestle Review, The Shore, Thimble and Variant Lit, among others.