one of eight mouths

rain, they say, is the
heaven pouring
blessings. when i
was a child, it means
flood, tickling my
chubby ankles, choking
my father’s chest
once. it means
waiting for free
food rations and escaped
shrimps from spilling
ponds. it is a
memorised, annual
struggle. a sweet,
repeating chapter
of our wooden,
dining table (too
small to sit eight
mouths) but was
never empty. not

even once.

—

09.2020
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