Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

in memory

of my daughter

a field of pink carnations

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Threshold, a haibun by Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

A prolonged cold draught of air from the AC blows on my face. The constant light of the phone screen has left me with dry eyes. Conversations feel like a wheel of fortune about to tumble over. The stillness of the evening yawning into a night brings with it a range of memories. I indulge in work. After a sustained period of activity, just this will to lie motionless…

autumn dusk 

a hedgehog shuffles

through leaves

Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

back home

the firm green

of mangoes 

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

wildflowers the ruddiness of her laughter

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

pencil sketch—

the grey of her hair

black

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Diwali lights . . .

you and me

in our shadows

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

solitary moon—

the hum

of a singing bowl

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

a round-bellied calico—

the birth and death

of generations 

a mother sees

in her lifetime

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

how rapidly 

those memories swell 

like chia seeds in water

i soak my anger

and drink it down

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

seven times over

nomads

changing homes 

my son revels

in the joy of new spaces

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

sunbeams

upon her face

i see veins

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

my father's last smile 

floats upon my grief

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy