Sharanya Manivannan

August, The Year After

 

I should be in Sri Lanka now

but I am not, caught instead

 

inside the throat of a rainstorm

in a large village to the north.

 

My grandfather sleeping in the

Colombo house with the second

 

to last fifth of my grandmother’s

ashes. The last house she walked in.

 

When the day breaks, he will leave

for Kathirgamam. Daylight in that

 

country shaped like a tear, origin of

love, resting place of serendipity.

 

I wake to the bed trembling. Tonight,

islands other than my heart are equally

 

[....]

Sharanya Manivannan

seismic. The rain ceases; the fear of water

sets in. The coast puckers against it. And

 

my grandmother, she whose remains

will bless the flood of five rivers,

 

will continue to walk, the sound of her

bangles in the hallways of every building

 

I will lay my head in, waking me on

nights of rain as if to say, look.

 

The stars are for you. The lightning, for you.

Whatever the morning brings, know this,

 

See how much, how much we love you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © Sharanya Manivannan. White Whale Review, issue 1.3