In our culture, we burn our dead(s), scatter the ashes
in rivers
and so nothing remains.
Why this heaviness then? What slipped from the fire
and landed on us
like snow on hunched shoulders?
My mother whispers
death is a cycle,
a hoop we all must jump through
and life in that moment, feels redundant.
Returning home, everything remains unchanged, yet
I am making adjustments.
Sleep seems like the best option.
If not death, then I’ll take anything that resembles it.
Ashish Kumar Singh (he/him) is a poet from India and a post-graduate student of English Literature. Along with other things, he writes about queer experiences in a country that denies their existence, and the collision between self, culture and religion. Other than writing, he reads and sleeps extensively. Previously he has been published in Brave Voices Magazine, The Mark Literary Review, Dust and Sledgehammer Lit. Twitter: @Ashish_stJude