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…
This is the sound of our country./ Hands clapping each other/ everywhere –/ like carthorses through the lanes…
Behind the orange airplane seats we dip/ our heads, you part your mask so I can kiss you/ on the cheek, such illicit love in these new/ clean days of ours…
Emily Webb 