WORDS ON THE HORIZON

VOICES

The voices that vie for attention-
they've been there
since my grandmother was told
"your ghosts were
too intricate
to be taken to task"
Nobody knows what it means
for the life of me.

"Your demons
come from your father's uncle;
there's a reason
the tree at the other end
of the estate
is forbidden",
I was told.
The tree is where he lives now
over the branches.

***

My grandmother.
She loved the warmth
of her shawls
in winters.
My grandmother.

Each day,
I bury a little bit
of her.
Each day,
I am told
that to die at seventy
from an incurable malady
is
how the voices
build an early grave.

**

My father's uncle.
He loved
the coy light of afternoons
in January-
like me
he had the peculiar taste
for slanted rays
falling on his right shoulder-
"the most delicate part
of a man's upper body
meant to lighten
a whole day's ego",
he used to say.

Each day
I go with the flow
but he keeps
calling me back
to the delicate path of innocence
& its torpedoes;

Each day
the impertinence
of being
his kith and kin
gives subtle cues to the voices
vying for my attention.

***

Now,
it's time for heavier socks,
gloves
and caps.
It's that time of the year
again.

The last laugh....
has already escaped.

The corn and bread,
the husks
and cornfields-
all eaten and then distended
over marginal years.

An uncertain time it is
for us.
All who came before me
and I-
burying our hair
under overcast skies.

***

   The Epilogue

A blue van is parked
at the edge of the estate.
The voices
go with me
towards it.
On the circle
where once I felt
the slant of rays
on an ordinary afternoon
fill my right shoulder,
two men in plainsclothes
usher me in-
a flash
and an indistinctive
light
leads me on.

Maybe,
I'm seeing the last
of this place
where I lived
for so long.

Maybe,
the sterile rooms
overlooking plush lawns
and wicker chairs
will be Life.
For the greater part.

Voices.
Voices....

they go
as far back
as Christmas
under a nylon sky.

***