When I was the height of the table leg,
eye to eye with Indian elephants,
jasmine flowers climbing the sheesham wood
of my dad’s childhood, I tried to turn my tongue
around his Tamil, thumbi little brother,
thungachi my sister, but didn’t know
the kneedeep kneedeep calls of purple frogs
that sent him to sleep each night or the thwack
of stick on bush as his pudgy legs roamed
all the way to the cud where rivers fell
off the side of the earth into thick clouds
of shola forest and spirits below.
Now I ache for those sounds, to hear his fine
English vowels transform to the palate-flick,
the glottal rasp of his past; to hear consonants
flitting round his mouth as if they’re water striders
dancing, their spindly legs notching
the surface like time, just for a moment.
Winner of First Prize in the 2021 Cheltenham Festival Poetry Prize
Emily Webb 