By Kinjal Sethia
Mulberry Tales A laundered hope- swinging the parental pendulum. From her clasp to him, day leaps to dusk on the lake. A happy fatigue scratches a smile. Brimming with an ordinary pride- being called parents. Her eyes turned away from the mountains. He scans the mist, an ice cream truck, a madari* for me. They laugh as I paint mulberry our world. The centre of their universe is stained purple. White that she will scrub clean in the hotel room. *Madari -- Juggler
Kinjal Sethia is a freelance writer-editor based in Pune. Her work has appeared in Nether Quarterly and EKL Review. She is the fiction editor at The Bombay Literary Magazine and is a part of the poetry community The Quarantine Train.
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