Pedda atta always said that I was like my bãva, her son that I had never met. In Podili, everyone had to step over open sewers to get to their front door, and the temple next door to us had broken shards of bottles stuck into the top of the cement walls so that monkeys couldn’t perch there, like the BART station ledges and shop fronts with metal spikes so the pigeons and the homeless can’t sleep there.
The metal rails.
The shards of glass.
When we listen our past is littered with elegy.
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Nov 28, 02:22 AM