rice fields after heartbreak Read Single →
i left
my voice
in the paddies
a gasp tucked
between the roots
of young rice
my grief
wore anklets
and stepped barefoot into the mud
like she knew the way
(i did not)
you said
you’d be back before monsoon
but now
only frogs call my name
& no one answers
except the wind’s teeth
we harvested silence this year
in bushels
my aunt whispers
“pain doesn’t rot if you salt it”
so i carry yours
wrapped in banana leaf,
the lunch i didn’t ask for
the sun touched everything but my mouth.
your name still grows
in the gaps between my teeth.
i dipped my hands
into the water,
& it knew.
the shape of you—
how you left.
how you split me
open
like husk from grain.
(i do not eat rice anymore.)
but i still rinse it
three times,
to see if memory can drown
in repetition.
if the heartbreak
can be
washed.
out.
the wind is a liar.
it still brings your voice
in pieces.
somewhere,
your mother is planting
new seedlings.
she does not know
you burned the whole field.
i kneel.
i bite my tongue.
the water rises
but does not carry me.
not this time.
