The train to Calcutta is full of people in pajamas. A passing Indian lady has hiccoughed, and
the whole train remains fragranced for an
hour. Outside, a barren landscape
and a distant church sign. I have my
head wrapped loosely inside a piece of
green and gold cloth but
my eyes can see the symbols of betrayal from the smoke that
circles his neck
and the ring that taps on the
glass when he hums a silly tune to
himself.
~this poem appears in Right Hand Pointing,
issue #12 (See here) and Writing Macao: creative text and
teaching, 2007, issue#5 (see here).
~Image
courtesy of Jakub Pstrag.
