Far is the sound a phone makes
as you press your ear tighter to the receiver
trying to capture any syllable that slips
through the static.
Far is a list
of names of those lost in the torrential growl of flood water
tearing rock barricades apart,
the scrape of corrugated steel on earth
erasing a village/a town on the river banks, abandoning any inhabitants
it gives grace.
Far has the width of a thread.
Far is the distance between castes
& circumstances that dictate
a quality of life;
the width of sound a hammer makes striking the tin,
turning it into bowls - I sat there on the wall of the cliff
you'd look far up.
Far is the light
in their eyes when they see pale skin on hands
pressed into a temple
on shanty town dirt paths,
the touch of fingertips to pulse points.
Far is sightless,
floating bodies, caught in the silt
Far is not knowing who of the lost
I shared a meal with - the smell of which
still clings in my fingerprints.
Is the sound of children's dancing feet
on a concrete slab stripped of any walls, a roof - I hear you,
I hear you.
Far is the song I hum watching the moon in the morning
lingering in the light of a New day, knowing
you see it rising in the darkness.
I am here.
You are far.
Far is pain.
is a prayer --
until it isn't.
The rains from the monsoons fed the rivers, which raged and washed away many of the homes and people in Rivertown this week. Hundreds were left without shelter or any semblance of the what little life they once had. I walked there several days a week. This is my song of far.-thanks Susan, for helping me gain traction with it.