Bhavna Parmar
​

The sky is dark.

The tree—
a finger to a mouth.
 

An apartment,
its lights on—an eye.
 

I am walking inside

of an ear. All I hear

is rain.
 

A black dog
under the curry tree—
asleep.
 

It has been two days since then.
 

Raindrops fall
on his face.
Water collects near him
like a gift.
 

Sparrows eat thorn-lives

as if land itself has become

a leash.

Maybe this is how
the dead are taken—
 

in drops,

in beaks of sparrows,

carried off

 

on the sound of footsteps

of the living.