there's a drowning
in the river that passes through my mother
shoe prints over her periwinkles
dead and dying stars
jumping over our sal wood fences
to tell me they played no part
but someone raised a son who raised
a finger and the tip eclipsed my sun
my cheeks are peachblow
a stranger is eating her gooseberry
out of my palms
i cannot stall
i am of age
of withered laurels
he’s a martin, a masquerade
of home perched on the edge of things
listen, every thunder speaks to the son
in stammering rodent squealing high notes
teach him a different language altogether
before he preaches and i worship
let him always adore the sea
more than he does the sky
leave the height to the daughters-in-law
let them climb the ladders and the stairs
to the roof to hang the laundry dry
and tell them to take their time
while the wind gathers the vapour
out of the muslin swaddling quilt
to remember which way is east
which way is home
and which way to run
if the river ever calls
Roding Puii is a creative writer and researcher from Mizoram, a tribal state in northeast India. Her writings largely focus on the female experience and disability experience. Her short stories and poems have been published in The York Literary Review and Statement Magazine. She is currently pursuing her Ph.D in disability studies.