Exile
       

The world is sand
unfolding outside the pane.

From high windows gulls cross
higher still; clouds rearranging

unmask brick pediments
like faces flicked on in the dark.

A brief recognition:
hair pushed back from the eyes

before falling.
My loneliness

banks two rivers, an island,
lands somewhere gulls land.

A letter arrives—
still odorous, crushed voile

of childhood sleep; I tear it to pieces,
taste each one, separately.

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Copyright © 2018 Subhashini Kaligotla All rights reserved
from Bird of the Indian Subcontinent
The (Great) Indian Poetry Collective
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission