I go 16 light years back to my house
before I know the words for shame
and girlhood, playing is dancing
and I fall like a wounded soldier
on the paddy field
to the left of my house
stalks rise, roots push every brick
of apartment buildings
city breathes, people are in the night bus
to their villages
young blood flows within the border
timber becomes Peepal tree
to stand behind my house
neighborhood boys moonwalk in Kathmandu
elbows poke on ribs
grains of gold break cement slabs
unroll a cricket field
in front of my house
my brother runs from the bazaar with wickets
his friends save the last bit of roasted chickpeas
in newspaper cones
also watching him past the tributaries of streets
two open eyes of our house
my sister dries her velvet hair on the balcony
small packets of two-rupee shampoo and conditioner
Sunsilk ripped on the mouths
still mix with the water dripping from her cold back
neighbor auntie’s saris flutter on a rope on the third story
paisley butterflies to the right of my house
my father brings home the Moon in his scooter’s mirrors
he lets her rest with his helmet
in a shed of our house
our mother rings evening prayer bells
each mantra a child’s name
a son, a daughter who has not yet left the house
Also by Anuja Ghimire
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