my father is a bit of verse

strangulated by the razor-sharp sentences

 of political poetry, of news reports,

that move forth, swaying to the metallic wind 

of a mechanized monotony

my father is a bit of thought

that comes in, a bit of thought

that goes out, a bit of thought  that lingers

for a while on family albums, on dry cheeks

and then, a bit of thought that disappears

like every other thought

my father is a set of ill-pronounced english

strung together, with the crude touch of

vernacular verses, the bitter-sweet flavors

of an abuse, like the sourness of a betel leaf

my father is entangled in the numerals

of their conversations, as they spend four minutes

and forty-five seconds discussing the death-toll

and possibly, a millisecond or two extra

when they mention the digit that he occupies

''Forty seven thousand, eight hundred, sixty four. . . ''

my father, is a mound of sand, beneath which

a young boy, lay a butterfly to rest

a butterfly with wings, tenderly crumpled

like a poem, which is good enough, but

just does not satisfy

my father is a gunshot

tearing through the sky, shredding the clouds

disturbing my mother

who sips chai and sings to the mountain

making her drop her cup of chai

and making her hands shake

making her cheeks whiten

making her fists tighten