The Gone

by Amit Parmessur

January afternoon after school

Grandmother sick at heart

Rain splashing and ringing like
blood-stained bullets on ground

Grandmother’s blinking eye seeing doom

Her words to me
grass to a hungry lion

Grandfather, lately, just a
snowflake in her haggard hands!

To grow three oak trees in farthest desert
He once promised her

Countless grogs swinging in stomach
he slips

He yells

He flies

Down ravine

Neck gets broken in a drumstick tree

Now, whenever the rain falls, it hits the
sill like the coin he gave me
when I was about ten and quite dumb

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Amit Parmessur lives with his black cat and two cute dogs nowadays. Since 2010, his poems have appeared in over a hundred literary magazines, like Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Hobo Camp Review and Red Fez. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon. Born in 1983, he was nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Award and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius.