The Passport
by Gopikrishnan Kottoor (July 2015)
The blue cloth hyacinths that father brought home from Bangkok
Stood heady on the carved round table in the black earthen vase.
It was the only outside place he had been to.
Perhaps he had also been to the blind prostitutes
Pushing their pubic dark canoes into the night river
In Damnoen Saduak.
But if that, he did not tell mother.
Edge purpled, his kind of heaven,
The hyacinths blossomed in a dream of colored fireworks,
Khlongs wet as lusty lips, and the great gold leaf Buddha
Lying like a fallen New York skyscraper.
Father had earned all that for himself, at last.
Every night he was at our carved round table
Dreaming of Bangkok.
Smoke curls from his Player’s cigarette chain
Roped the hyacinths in thick mist, till
They reeked entirely of tobacco dust.
Father adored his hyacinths. He watered them
With that longing look in his eyes, until,
They closed into coma.
As he lay in the hospital, turning red- yellow,
the blue petals back home began to lose their shine,
thirsting for the water of his eyes, his tobacco mouth.
They seemed quite prepared for what would be.
The day death encircled father in Easter mist,
mother glued his best looking photograph
among the hyacinth petals, and laid his passport below,
in one last signature of love’s quietening meridian.
It was as though, mother, she knew it all.
Of purple edged hyacinths
perpetual in father’s watering eyes,
and of blank pages, sailing lost winds back home
to where the pubic dark canoes pushed upon night rivers
of the blind girls in Damnoen Saduak.
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www.undergroundflowers.com, a poetry quarterly. His book of poems Father, Wake in Passing, translated into German, was read on invitation across universities in Europe.
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