Dida and the wall are in the middle of a conversation
that uses a dead language without translation or root.
The wall is her accomplice. She plans to bomb the roof
for not letting her see the sky. The wall knows nothing
about the blue that echoes across the earth, a kind of caul,
a kind of wall constructed for the living. But the wall will
readily join such an insurgency. Who does not want to see
what is on the other side? Sometimes as the snake-heads
of mourners keep rising through the house I want to yell
she isn’t dead, only dying—do you all also open your
umbrellas long before the rains—they say there is a roof—
what rain. Dida who has kidnapped the rain in her body
without seeing the sky. Dida who sees nothing but sky.
Karan Kapoor
Karan Kapooris an MFA candidate at Virginia Tech. A finalist for theTusculum ReviewandIron Horse Literary Reviewchapbook prizes, their poems have appeared inAGNI, Shenandoah, Colorado Review, Cincinnati Review, North American Review,and elsewhere,fiction inJOYLANDandthe other side of hope,and translations inThe OffingandThe Los Angeles Review. The Editor-in-Chief ofONLY POEMS, you can find them at: karankapoor.net
