Custodians of our Stories

Night arrives, bare foot, slathers the ledge of our window.
Buds of hibiscus fall, shrivelled by the pitch dark.

Begum Apa sits on her couch, as we gather around her.
The Persian rug feels warm under our glacial juvenile skin.

Apa flickers a candle to our faces, “our graves are dug.”
Our breaths scan the room, in search of temporary lodging.

She calmly gathers our tongues, raw in her white napkin,
shoves them in a brass trimmed chest. She stares past

our almond eyes to the labyrinth of fireflies.
Hours ascend into saturnine shadows, inaudible, vacant,

unaware of histories. We glance at the brass inlay on Cedar wood,
silently assuring us of their place- Custodians of our stories.