liminal

the moon born in blood
rose out of blood into rust
falling into the dim shade
of the lamppost you
longed for in your dreams

until it turned white
soft pale, grainy, like
the bowl of basmati rice
your mother’s hands soaked-
a cloudy mixture of what
you will never live to know

you blow with still a child’s breath
the basmati moon soon consents
spreading the seeds of their secrets,
only, your hands will now soak them

that night the wind carried
the scent of dried mango peels
rotting below the banyan tree

and my dreams took me from
lampost cobble streets to
the cool clay roof that
should have sheltered me
to the dust filled alleys
you should have walked

i wake up from my dream

and you are home, i am somewhere
floating in the in between
we are the blind voyagers floating
with both feet in separate seas.

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