Smog has wrapped the city like a fine wool shawl when my mother calls to say she hasn’t slept in days— because of the news on TV and our friend who is dying. I know she is right; these are terrible times, and we have both always struggled to calm the warm flutter in the gut, the sudden searing behind the left eye. I tell her I love her and not to worry: Delhi’s roads are wide enough for farmers and tractors and all kinds of lovers— we’ll plough under the wasteland, plant wheat and white clover.Comments closed
Poems about the dark times.