Season’s Greatest Myths

This river is the clouds’ heaven.
Those mountains are where they dwell,
and I saunter – all wet
as if an unknown grief
has airdropped their pamphlet
like confetti from a flying object.

My aunt, the one who
said that she should die first
ere her husband ceases to age,
and so she did, fell ahead,
scurries to pick up
the memories she laid on
the clothesline for the winter.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

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