NEWS DELIVERY by Smriti Verma • Cleaver Magazine
NEWS DELIVERY by Smriti Verma Once, my brother set himself on fire, on a cold December morning. We were sitting on the front porch with a glass of sherry, a skull, arms, winds. Said: ‘my hands, the fingernails, the hair.’ And then, a pause. That was also the winter my mother, sixty now, came home from Delhi, limping straighter than usual. I gave her the news, you gave her a cup of tea. And in the corner, my brother’s hands- burnt, yet working. Moving in space. His hair, faulty ends, sticking out like remnant ashes we forgot to throw away. My eyes slowly dissolving, and your hand- grounded to bone. And my mouth, opening and closing, sewed with a fabric of glass. My body lost to me like the last vanishing oranges of sunset.