Daily I wait
dusting
father’s old typewriter
unusual
uncared for
my growing
children.
I wait for
his letter
long
promised before
an age of
poetry.
I remember
he wrote
three times
a day
the landline
rang every hour.
He spoke in
rhythmless
I love you
dearest
you are my
nearest
in this fretful
world
of broken
pyramids
and invaded
temples.
He was like
that
never spoke
straight
always in
couplets, riddles
looking at
my eyes
to measure
the sea
his mind
always ran
in haunted gardens
to pluck a
flower for
my luxuriant
hair.
I know smile
at myself
how many
times I have
run to the
dictionary
to
understand his letters
how many
times I have
asked him to explain
the meaning
of what he said
even now my
lips glimmer
to light his
life
with a flowing kiss.
I craned my
neck
to the stretch of road
visible
through my
kitchen
window while
making the
lunch box ready
it was empty
yesterday
it is empty
today
the post man’s
cycle bell
is silent
for long days:
Will he not
write
the last
love letter
or has he
forgotten to post
or has he
forgotten the art
of love in
the words of
heavenly serenades.
Is he dead
or alive
if alive how
is it
the letter
is undelivered
like the
unseasonal fruit
of far off
island
beyond the
mortal world
where the
love letter is
buried and
gone.
Sabita Sahu
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