Picking Up The Pieces

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They came in the night
A uniform storm
Wielding voices of harsh violence
And instruments of death

We stood by silently
As our house was violated
They extracted their pound of flesh
In the form of a box of white powder

With that, the khaki whirlwind passed
But claimed my husband as its victim
How especially sad, after he had
Recently lost his job

I sat first on the sofa in the hall
A demure peach bride of soft countenance
Her clothes had been thrown helter-skelter
I calmed her down and fixed her up

I traveled to our bedroom
That chamber of facing backs
And patiently folded the strewn clothes
And patiently put the clothes back into the open drawers
And patiently closed the open drawers
And patiently came the tears

I headed to the store room
And among the mess, I found
My old collection of music CDs, how ironic
That which he so easily had neglected
Had been the hiding place of his shame

The brown men, in their brusque haste
Had cracked apart one of the discs, I picked it up
It was a collection of Rafi songs, gifted to me
By my late father, a loving reminder that he
Would support me in whatever I did

I glided back into my room
Switched off the lights
And went to bed

Abhijeet Krishnan