Remembrance
It’s 1989. Dad and Mom are outside in the freezing
white night. Echoes are rising above the domes
of countless mosques. Kites float in air,
green dragons and blue serpents. A kite is falling
at our doorstep. It’s 1977. I enter my house through oily gates,
bawling. In 1983 in Burn Hall High School, Srinagar,
the fathers teach me, "Early to bed and early to rise
makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise."
In 1989, there are crimson rivers and Levi's skies across Kashmir.
I hear Klashnikov's music and read Death's composition.
In 1980, sister arrives with hazel almonds, golden skin
and copper hair. In 1990---beaten eggs, cracked
friendships and suspicious looks;
an Uzi and a Chinese grenade is found
hidden between Ghalib and Shakespeare.
My friend
suspended from school.
And now it is 1997. I’m living my American life:
bated breath, altered mind, styrofoam cups and black tar.