by Sanam Sheriff
Grandfather clock hands,
Winter in his hair, 
A watch, a tie, a silverware smile. 
Veins like rivers on a map, 
Skin like crumpled paper
- All still alive.
Screams from his bedroom,
Broken glass on the floor. 
Panicked, helpless eyes, 
The way they flicker 
Like a moth towards the light. 
I watch from the back of an ambulance 
As they hover over him- vultures. 
Road, red-yellow-green, road,
The van rocking like a carousel horse 
Too many rides away from home.
White walls, white sheets, white noise-
The opposite of a wedding gown, 
Tubes like rivers on a map, 
Machines, men, masks,
A mountain on the bed-
Still, still, still breathing. 
A crowd dressed like crows,
Prayer, screams, tears- 
All falling on lost ears.
Loss- not of a key or a game,
But of the way his grandfather clock hands 
Would jetplane to catch me 
As I called his name. 

* "Maut" is the word for death in Hindi