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Life's Lesson
There is a glacier between our home and his.
Ideally we should have taken a dog sled
to go to our uncle's farm. But mother said,
Children, let's walk. You must learn to hike
over thin ice when you are young,
when you are light-footed as arctic gulls.
On our short march, we learned to fish
by drilling holes through snow with our bare hands.
We gathered courage to slide down a steep gap.
In the moon's glow, we watched prehistoric creatures
moving under our feet, following our blood's scent.
The youngest of us ran after the northern lights
thinking it a ribbon of heaven's light. Mother said,
Don't worry. When he understands
his mistake, he will return. Mother showed us
how to jump like blizzard wolves
over the slab of slim ice.
When we got there, we felt warm in the heat
of our uncle's igloo. He and his family
were dancing, wearing animal masks. We ate
skin-on smoked salmon under the flame
of a kerosene torch. Mother got drunk
after having too much Skagway liquor.
* * *
On our way back, mother told us,
Now, I'll show you how to vanish
through an ice crack when one's journey ends.
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Endurance
Hair hanging over her face, she bristles
with the thrill of killing. She says
it takes teamwork. She asks me
and my brother to whip the anthill
with bamboo sticks from opposite sides.
She herself digs a pot-sized hole
in front of the main channel going into the anthill.
Then she lights a jute torch.
Ants come out in hundreds, attracted by the light.
She flogs them with a wood spade
and pushes them into a jar.
She keeps the ant-filled jar in the sunlight
for a few days, then fries them with chili powder.
We don't care what it is – it tastes so good.
We carry on another day without going hungry.
Like mother says, only smart ones survive
in the time of famine.
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The Judgment Day
It started like any other day.
Our father was shaving in the kitchen
while drinking his morning tea.
We felt a slight tremor.
His teacup quivered a little
spilling a few drops over the newspaper.
He raised his hands in astonishment
and froze. Our mother also froze for a moment
then she began giggling hysterically,
pointing towards the bay leaf plant
on the windowsill already glowing
like a Christmas tree. I heard no big bang
or anything like that. I saw father's shaving cream
drip from his frozen cheek
onto the table top like melting butter.
And through the kitchen window,
the sky outside lit up
like a huge TV screen.
A man's face appeared on it, live.
He said he was speaking from the airbase
located in Shreveport, LA. The picture was a bit blurry
and the man's voice sounded calm
through static. He asked everyone
to remain composed in this special moment
and to follow his instructions.
Everyone came out of their homes
and formed two lines, chanting hallelujah. The dirt under their feet
glowed like phosphorus dust,
the steel mill's chimney spewing violet smoke
and the apples on the fruit stand radiating bright lights.
I tried to get into the queue that was marked for Heaven.
Even the mannequins from the display windows
came rushing to join that line. But
no one would let me in. They said
I was never a believer. A purple cloud
gradually formed above our heads
and lightning circled through it like a hot coil.
When it started to drizzle, the boiling raindrops
big as tennis balls came down and caused blisters
on our radioactive skins. The garbage cans
smoldered, sending out a sweet smell.
Birds in the sky were pinned
as in a museum exhibit and behind them planets
appeared like shining
dinner plates. I looked for my parents,
but found my younger brother standing in Hell's queue, alone
with a placard in his hand which read:
Hell is a better place to go to.
I felt bad for him, so I joined him.
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Sankar Roy, originally from India, is an engineer, MBA, poet, translator and multimedia artist living near Pittsburgh , PA.
He is a winner of PEN USA Emerging Voices, author of two chapbooks of poetry forthcoming from Pudding House– Moon
Country (2006) and The House My Father Could Not Build (2007). He is an associate editor of international poetry
anthology, Only the Sea Keeps: Poetry of the Tsunami (Rupa Publication, India and Bayeux Arts, Canada), which was one
of the three finalists for 2006 Benjamin Franklin Award, and winner of Skipping Stone Honor Award. Sankar's poems have appeared
or forthcoming in numerous print and online journals including Bitter Oleander, Blue Color Review, Crab Orchard Review,
Color Wheel, Diner, Runes, Rhino, White Pelican Review, Whiskey Island, Pittsburgh Post Gazette, etc.. His recent project
is creating a multimedia website against the genocide in Darfur.
Contact Sankar
Writer's Alliance Website
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Copr. 2005-2008 The Centrifugal Eye - Collected Works. All Rights Reserved.
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