by Vismai Rao
Two months of sunless winter
emperor penguins huddle to conserve heat—
it’s how a thousand-petalled black marigold
stays abloom the icy Antarctic
until the arrival of spring. Three oceans away
my half-blind grandmother
is discovering for the first time water
halted by its own limitations:
icebergs, frozen seas, glaciers. I pause the movie
to tell her there are places on this planet
that don’t see sunshine for six months & she fixes
her one good eye on me, bewildered—Soon,
the view of Eurasia from outer space
fills our screen and I tell her
this is Earth, the thing you’re standing on, a part of me
worried if the heart at 72 can absorb
the shock of such revelations.
Amamma devours the season
as we binge-watch six episodes in two days:
Mushrooms inching out of tree bark. The jaw of a croc
snap-shut on the leg of a wildebeest. Or a million snow geese
like heartbeats emerging
out of my grandmother’s chest, a flutter of wings
so furious it decries every notion
of flightlessness, amamma’s feet
twitching inches above the stone floor—
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