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Love, Language, and the Legacy of Loss

In the last lunar event on the other side of the river
I was invited. I used smile where words were needed,
I am not proficient in their language. The food
made love with my tongue, although I already knew
that it wouldn't settle well in my stomach.

The friend who summoned me introduced me
to his little daughter. She loves a Cinderella story.
Look, the moon has metaphorsed us into myths.
I told her. Look, our footwear is glass.
We danced to the amusement of others.
A lady with a cat on her lap laughed, swaying
her head. My grandmother. The girl explained.
We buried her in our backyard.

Picture design Anumita Roy

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