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  • Archana Sridhar

The world once fell into my mother’s eye

By Archana Sridhar


Dried like a shard of a clay cup

we tossed by the side of the road

at that coffee stall on the way to Mysore.


A sliver of Revlon nail polish in ruby red,

carefully applied each morning with a mantra,

carelessly peeled off each night with a scratch.


That day, my father blew on her iris gently

like the trade winds that wrapped around

the blue earth, whooshing east to west.


The old world caught, then dislodged,

fell right into her lap, then flaked away

onto the Queens floorboards.


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