hope is the thing with feathers

i was seven at the time and we used to stay

in a dusty three-storied government apartment -

papa was a clerk in the provincial commerce department -

and in the dirt courtyard with ashoka trees we used to play

on a fine sunny morning when the mustard was ripe

i remember i went up to throw 
from the terrace a dead crow
hoping it’d come alive 
and glide away