They sent me a salwar kameez
glistening like an orange split open,
I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro.
Barely distinguishable from other dots,
it's true, but quite uniquely placed.
I envied my wife her nightly visions.
She'd lay each one proudly on the bed
like a plump, iridescent fish,
We had waited through so many lifetimes
for the stone to speak, wondered if
it would make compelling pronouncements,
anything worth writing down.
Then after the war of wars
had ground to a shattering halt, the stone
emitted a small grinding sound rather like
the clearing of a throat.
Let us be indifferent to indifference,
the stone said.
And then the world spoke.
I observed that her knuckles were raw
with the effort of knocking on doors.
And if they opened she'd have difficulty
passing through - the awkwardness
of easing in with her world intact.
More than once I implored her to give up.
But I admired my wife, in a way -
the single-mindedness, her fierce pursuit.
She worked attentively, whenever she could,
at her listening skills, honing them
by day and night
on the creaking of a far-off door.