I wish I was a painter.
I’ve been writing for years now
and I still haven’t found
the other
nine hundred and sixty words
I need to paint a picture of
my mother standing-
looking out into the balcony
through our mosquito netted door-
her silhouetted back facing me-
still-
as the trees outside-
as if she were
waiting
for something
someone
some thought
some silence-
in a cold
monsoon
evening.
