I looked for you all day, I wrote. I called. I wanted,
needed to hear you. But the day opened anyway
and it did not bother to ask me where I was clicking
keys. Mother inquired gently what would I like
for the garden? Orange trees? Two rows of roses?
I packed my bag as well for the trip to Santo Domingo.
I had other calls to make in between looking at texts,
email. I also have a half-dozen poets to translate,
a magazine to edit, and 10,000 steps to walk
before the belly snaps back. What do you care?
Autobiography does not make headlines unless
the writer calls himself X. Who are you? Beloved,
friend, reader? What is the sound of a poem falling
into a pit? I did not seek the easy finish. I swear
I write about love and obligation. Politics and identity.
I hear scratching. I think I have made a mistake.
The pit is moving. Bring on the grave liberators.
Indran Amirthanayagam, c) June 26, 2021