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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