Mandira Pattnaik

Abeoji

it’s an accursed appointment
late on Sunday night
in streets without names,
distinguished by width
the way it is with urchins
or boot-leggers.

I haven’t seen him since Monday
when I went to school in yellow dungarees
and he waved from the gates
an arm lightly on mum’s shoulder

the bridge of thirteen years
is a boa constrictor, has
eaten away three lifetimes.
he bolted before I was back.
in the closet was mum
turned to stone,
trailing her, everything
that belonged to us.

my convicted dad’s eyes
no longer stray. No one
to bother him with questions.
No longer needs to say—it
was an accident.
The way he talks, I listen.
Learn a thing or two
about blood connections
and how to spot cracks on glued-up
brittle bonds.

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Mandira Pattnaik's recent poems have appeared/are forthcoming in Prime Number Magazine, West Trestle, Variant Lit, Feral Poetry, Kissing Dynamite and Eclectica Magazine. Find her on Twitter @MandiraPattnaik