Alamgir Hashmi

Two poems


of course we broke
the wishbone together
grip tighter with each twist
hands in the feel
of breaking even
plus thumb joint pressure
and feathers plucked
one after another and another
until endings of alphabet
her blue grass skirt rustling
in wicked sea wind
so we touch off the surface
light, sail easy
mix food with prayer
though we’ve gone
our own ways since
I holding up my end
of what looks like a stick
(no no no I have no
bone to pick
with anybody anything)
without knowing why
after such a fine meal
we made of it all
with cranberry sauce
at each port of call
on our this-world tour
up here or down under
swift bow and stern waves
hardly a tossup
but nothing to hear in the wake
oh the afterlife
of the poor wild goose
stuffed then
and done with smoothly
along three saints
and still every year
she texts me
happy thanksgiving

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