Of Waves of Reminiscence

I swear I heard
the sun burn something
alive under the ocean.
I heard a scream just as I lit the
matches to a wooden coffin
with no body inside to keep it warm.

My sister’s hair was always braided,
and when those brown strands
came undone, so did my mother.
I still remember white flowers
hanging from my sister’s hair
and a decade gap between siblings
nulled down to nothing
when it came to fights over the TV remote.

A numbing journal –
of words she kept, sullen, sombre
under the chin of her birthing heart and
I promised to bury it with her body.
But something about the finality
of the fire; and how it rose
under the sun like cracking splinters
around her ignited mind
made my hand
drop the only tangible connection
back into my bag.

Soft, steep
still weeping

A daisy fell over – crumpled
and the waves cried about ceaseless
memories of teenagers
learning how to surf.

We cannot let go of memories that easily.

Photo Credit: sycamoretrees Flickr via Compfight cc

Paakhi Bhatnagar

Paakhi Bhatnagar is a student from India and an avid reader of historical fiction. She is a passionate feminist and blogs about current politics and feminist issues. She also possess the uncanny ability of turning everything into a debate.

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