sans title

The heat, the littlest one had

wept, was killing him.

The ballwould melt.

A foot taller,(so much faster), his sister

Had the look, of utter disgust

wiped in the next minute by

a wicket going down. Willow,

leather and some even had

Pricey Canvas Shoes. In the

afternoon, the shouts of a game

rang in the empty, grassless

field. The distinct sound of ball

Hitting bat. That ‘tock’ and

collective sigh. Some body’s mother,

her screaming lungs, and the

proverbial broken house window.

Amnesia Cricket, Like when the

memory of a ball thrown melts

into the brown of the pitch, or

the blood from a wounded knee

Drips down the naked calf. Half

a memory sitting rather still on

the stumps. Like a bail. Or a

sleeping insect when it was 8 PM.

Amnesia Cricket, or the art of

having forgotten all the times

that blood was sworn to testify

and attest the remains of the day.

-"Amnesia Cricket" by Neha Viswanathan

never forget.

the traitorious defection that still haunts.. the choice that had to be made: the miscalculation that recoiled. the undesired result.

never forget.