Mayalu Press

how many ways are there to say we are guilty

all of us with burlap sacks
on our shoulders, moaning softly
and uncertainly,
the grey around and upon us,

eyes wide open and seeping,
pointing at each other, the horizon,
the wound,

the child in the pit and
the walk-away,

all of us trying to be sin-eaters
all of us clocking out at six.

~ Juni Kieri

The brightest things in my living room

I did not come home hungry this week but
I didn’t have the strength to move the pile

of clothes that once belonged to Sampa and
Appa, the brightest things in my living room.

There are too many dhaka topis; I have seen
him wear only two of these. The bhadgaule topi:

a relic from when it was mandatory to be
taken seriously, asia-pacific vets

and people who never saw combat alike, and then the
other topi: the pink and crimson dhaka, faded to

the same shade of beige as the gully Sampa walked under
cover of passing lambs and rams and goats all named after the

choice of drink of the goatherds’ fathers who perished in Burma so
naturally, there were a lot of ailas, chhyangs and tongbas who

were kicking off dust and tracking mud and Appa, who did not perish
in Burma, only had livestock to remember the inside jokes, let

them make a mess, so much so that Enisu must’ve bought him a new topi
every year at the Sali nadi mela, a different colour each

time. He hated the brightness, the boldness, the obvious otherness they could
bring to the eye and tried to get rid of them. How could he have been so tender

with beasts of burden on his field and the sheep, the rams, the goats, but not his own kin?
I look at Sampa’s shawls barely worn, almost burnt and I vow to keep everything.

~ Ekoro Tamang