The birth isn’t about poetry
It is about screaming pain on a Saturday
Hailing a cab and head racing
To the hospital, then so close to our old apartment
July already, it is your birth month,
Nine months since the snow fell.
I set bauhinia twigs on my hair
torn from a tree in Central Park,
I ride a painted horse, its mane a silky wonder.
You are behind me on a mare lilting soft
You whisper- what of happiness?
Distressed, Federico. Smoke fills my eyes.
Young, I was raised to a sorrowful song
Short fires and stubble on a summer coast.
The leaves in your cap are very green.
The eyes of your mare closed.
Somewhere you wrote: sayonara,
If I die leave the balcony open!
Written by Ridhima Sharma for MTTN
Featured image by Sera John for MTTN
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