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Climate of Grief: Mapping the Lone Car’s Journey

On the backseat, your jacket 
pretends to be full of you and
a keeper of your sleep too.

Are you here? If I imagine so
perhaps you are. If I doubt -
this becomes a lone car, and we
have crossed the last paddy field
before speeding into a blur.

The jacket came from a thrift store,
bears the name of a university
none of us could ever go. Does it hold
more people, shape them, although
because of my ignorance, they remain
invisible? I keep talking about silence,
about your infatuation with it.

The jacket slides from the seat.
The noise turns my head while I drive.

Picture design by Anumita Roy

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