This time, winter comes
to Paris on stockinged feet,
no fuss, no fireworks,
until she’s layering breath
with frost and the pipes with gnarls.
In Vellayani,
my parents greet their wedding
anniversary
by bracing their windows and
ears for Cyclone Burevi.
—KN, 3 December 2020
Ears attuned to sounds
at three in the morning that
are irrelevant:
techno party down the block,
wine shop delivery truck,
the pulse in my ears.
And sleep is over again:
dream conversations
on the Corniche, Raouché’s
wave-lapped rocks, kitchen table
that might be here or
some unvisited city.
Conversations stop
with the dreams; night continues
with its noises, my silence.
—MH, 5 December 2020
The noise, the noise shreds
all thought to silence. Inside
the dazzling white drum
(“a cylindrical super-
conducting MR scanner,”
the radiographer
corrects softly), I am mere
atoms of water,
each captioned by protons of
hydrogen, hurtling earthward.
Mere mass, off-kilter,
of drops rushing, lining, re-
aligning between
magnets and radio waves,
between rhythm and discord.
—KN, 12 December 2020
Discordant darkness
of curfew-emptied streets.
Saint Lucy’s Day past,
daylight will linger longer,
but when will sidewalks refill
with people heading
to movies, theatre, dinner,
ou que pour flâner?
On a screen, I watched white-robed
girls crowned with candles, singing
“Santa Lucia”
in another country, in
another language,
another year, when voices
wove, anodyne, in the air.
—MH, 16 December 2020