The Resting Place

By Saranyan BV

Summer peaked early

Beginning of April, it had sprung,

Too warm for comfort or sweat.


The flower arrangements came

And after sometime, overflowed,

The priest spoke about the celebration of life.


No cry, no sobs, no one wept,

They waited for a call from the undertaker,

The pit takes long in the seething heat, he’d said.


The choir boys look out of windows.

Mourners chide ceiling fans for being slow,

Bouquets would take a while before dropping dead.



Everyone imagined with shudder,

The day they would lie, with poignance

Hands crossed in front.


Out of the icebox, laid in bed of flowers

Mom saw all this, no longer cool, her soul

Impatient -- is it done? The resting place.

Saranyan BV is poet and short-story writer, now based out of Bangalore. He came into the realm of literature by mistake, but he loves being there. His works have been published in many Indian and Asian journals. He loves the works of Raymond Carver.

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