"In this extraordinary collection, I found a letter written on the day my son was conceived. His moment to choose earth, ours to choose heaven. In the travel between dialogues, between the lessons in these letters, maybe our past gets revealed as students floating in the other's eye." — Edwin Torres

Out to Sea

by Hajera Ghori

When I was young, I imagined floods.
Under tables, in covert closets,
breathing air stale with the ghosts
of a thousand curried dinners,
I would sit and listen for the rain.

It would start as a gentle percussion,
a softly drummed din to cover me
under its warm animal skin –
a raga of dha tira kita dha.

The water would seep darkly through,
bleed our burnt orange carpets
a shiny terracotta red.

The house would begin to creak its way
out of its earthquake-proof roots

and in my pink canopy bed-turned-boat,
I would paddle with brooms and mops.
Unhampered in a world drowned new,
I would sweep clean, wide strokes.

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