Father
It is you
talking to me.
Who was in your
nightmare
when a midnight moon
became so terrified
and you walked
over to the kitchen,
made tea with milk.
You prayed.
You dreamt
of a blue and green van
which stopped near our door.
Someone knocked
three times.
You heard the van pull away.
Then, you wanted to check.
My head
limp, uncut hair, bloodied,
fell out. My crushed hands
and shoulders you could
not bear to see.
Tonight
I am home with you,
sleeping
in a room downstairs:
not my own room
next to yours.
Your soft step comes close,
it goes away till I can't hear.
In your own home, my father,
you cannot find the Door
within which is Mercy.
Outside is Death. I cannot Rise!
[© Lalita Pandit, March 15, 1997].
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