Breath & Shadow
A Journal of Disability Culture and Literature
Summer 2012
Volume 9 Issue 3
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Breath & ShadowA Journal of Disability Culture and Literature
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Breath & Shadow
Summer 2012Volume 9 Issue 3Memory Loss By Amit Parmessur His index finger drawing on the blanket like a silly schoolboy, he soon detects ants along the wall and turns into a traffic warden angry at transgressing vehicles. His hair scattered in voluntary neglect, bitter tears poised to explore his cheeks, he soon turns into a capricious tyrant who suddenly remembers too many swear words like ax wound. He watches the same soap opera three times in a day. At night, he opens the window and forgets to close. His daughters, he calls for them loudly, forgetting they are abroad. Talking to me on the phone, he only asks when I’ll be back with his cigarettes and rum and if I ask to talk to my mother, he lays down the receiver to look for her and does not come back. I cannot feel love for him, anymore! It seems he doesn’t need anyone’s help. Death has invaded his brave mind. He has reinvented his view of the people around and I am among the stranger she does not trust. Winter Relics By Amit Parmessur An eye lost on memories of grandmother, I lament the sight of the old world map, smiling at my physical ambivalence. I want sunrays on the frozen druid stones outside, so that my face and hers can reflect on them again. Near the fireplace her picture in a frame every hour used to tell me everything about the pregnant past. I cannot coax it into my mind any more and two half-tarnished, fully-bent spoons, an empty bed with her silhouette, the oily comb, (you had such fragrant hair grandmother!) a pocket knife with blade dulled from idle scratching, and a death note with brown fingerprints are what should remain of us. This is the same knife with which I slashed her old age to show her her grace but it ultimately cut our bond, bringing an eternal, dreary winter. I am mentally paralyzed. I am empty and dry now, a ball-point pen that has lost its horizon, unable to write your story, grandmother. Woeful Wheelchair By Amit Parmessur She could not look into the twisted eyes of the blind beggar I’d become. She muttered good evening to my white sleeve. Looking away, she must have thought of the romantic hand which would once pitch dandelions in the pure plain of her heart. What will you drink she then asked my sparkling serum bottle. She was told I could not drink or eat or talk. My wheelchair drifted towards her. She sensed my fingers fumbling for hers as if I wanted to read some Braille secrets. She smiled, falsely. She could still not look into my hopeful eyes. She said goodnight to my solemn slippers. As she left in a hurry, it was dark outside. Just like inside my burnt heart, broken visions and the spacious tomb waiting for me. I fainted, killing the promise of being hers every second of every minute of every life. Born in 1983, Amit Parmessur is one of the editors of poetry magazine “The Rainbow Rose.” His poems have appeared in approximately 100 literary magazines, such as: Ann Arbor Review, Burnt Bridge, Black-Listed Magazine, Calliope Nerve, Damazine, Front Porch Review, Nefarious Ballerina, Poetry Bulawayo, Primalzine, Scythe, The Houston Literary Review, Zouch Magazine and many others. He was nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Award and lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius. In 2007 his poetry collection “The Words I Loved” was published locally. His book on blog entitled “Lord Shiva & Other Poems” was published in July 2011 by The Camel Saloon. |