My Grandparents by Amit Parmessur

You couldn’t just drop in her room like that.

You had to knock and she’d put you off,

the time to vanish grandfather’s things

and pretend to be the happiest widow around.

*

Though my grandfather was three years dead

grandmother kept his slippers warm by the fire,

cleaned his bed and pillow every morning

and talked to him sweetly from the window.

*

She wouldn’t risk being discovered ever

though she was the very first to rush out

any time the rusty hinges of the old gate

squeaked as if grandfather was returning home.

*

O grandmother! Where are you now?

You still have the black mobile I once gave you?

Your room is empty and you don’t answer

when I call you sweetly by the window.

*

I’m so lonely now.

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Aged 28, Amit Parmessur hails from the gorgeous island of Mauritius. Despite limited opportunities in his country he has worked hard to polish his poetry. He has been published in over 40 magazines since starting to submit his poems late 2010. Burnt Bridge, Calliope Nerve, Carcinogenic Poetry, Clutching at Straws, Damazine, Dead Poets, Heavy Hands Ink, Leaf Garden Press, LITSNACK, Puffin Circus, Shot Glass Journal, The Camel Saloon, The Houston Literary Review, The Literary Burlesque and The Scrambler are some of the places in which he has appeared. He currently edits The Rainbow Rose.

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Editor’s Note: Please continue praying for Bennett.