The hidden paddylands of hillsides,
Where the wind makes beds of love with ease,
Breathing between leaves like a gentle flow.
I lay here.
Memories of Papa are empty bottles,
Mamma, a fragrance of garlic.
My fondest memory of Papa is a bottle of black vodka,
Opened, which my uncle drank in my presence,
After you left.
Papa,
We are shadows that never merge,
Kept apart by a luminous ocean,
Unloving, untouched.
Slowly, slowly, we knew hurt and hate
Would consume us like booze—
That’s how we loved.
Now, I feel your spirit has gone,
And I am a matchstick exhaling its last flame,
Drinking the dregs of black vodka.
I sit where you sat,
Pray to your atheist sensibilities,
Cry out when I lose my girlfriends.
I remember you when I bathe my son,
When I brush his teeth, and his gums bleed.
I remember you with every drink,
As I sit at your desk—the same place,
Same writing board, same easy chair,
To write this poetry—
A letter in broken language to you.
Make it precise, let the body of the letter squirm.
But I know,
You won’t read this either.
That’s why I’ve drunk,
Trapped you in black vodka,
And write everything I’ve wanted to tell you.
You are every drop of my life,
Though I don’t know how to live it,
Just as I don’t know how to love you.
