By Saranyan BV
A VIGNETTE
I let her place her hand on mine.
I let her rest it like a turquoise tailor bird.
I could feel my burdens lift.
We sat watching the kids in the monsoon park,
Playing, climbing over the slide board
And gliding down. The board was wet
where it joined the earth.
We didn’t need to speak.
Speaking always led to differences.
The marigolds had showered and withered
Everywhere like tapestried carpet,
I squeezed her hand gently, and she said, “Oh!”
She got up and walked in the direction of the gate.
The man at the gate roasting groundnuts and selling,
Kept banging the skimmer
On the wrought-iron sand-filled pan. It made a lot of noise.
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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