CALCUTTA

STORY ANGLES

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Photo by rhinoji




Around the dusty walls
Of the dim hotel room,
I am alone with my sick friends' faces
And the world outside the window.
The sheds' posts are the only trees I see.
It rained last night
And the men are re-collecting discarded plastic
For women to sew new roofs.
Children stamp mud into place.
They were born on this street
And will probably die here.
Dave moans. I sponge him with alcohol.
Chris' lips are blue. I check his pulse for silence.
Last week, we discussed soul journeys
On a Himalayan foothill.
Last night he was delirious.
The light bulb contrasted the black outside.
Rain stuck to the window like seeds.
I have despaired of the doctor's arrival.
Here, pain is endured, not defeated.
A death gives space for three births.

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