By Caspian Flint
Through slatted window rings
the mountain embalmed a bell
there’s a monk in the passage
Without a lantern makes the hushes of childhood
A sticky nose frustrated, unpracticed hands
The old monk stirs the pot
sheared down to a fine black stubble
appears bloated against
the fleeced figure of the elder
The things he forgot he schooled
How we pass through
as part of the fabric
under which he naps
and builds blocks
with the whole realm of Dharma
All carnations of the grandfather in the village
Cannot tie a knot but plays
outside with a long stick and a flag
CASPIAN FLINT is an Iranian American writer from Southern California. She holds an MA in Prose from the University of St Andrews and is currently reading for her second Masters in Creative Writing at the University of Oxford. Her work has also appeared in Logue [Yellow], Surfaces, Forever Mag, Imagista and the Wellington Square Review.
Art by Poppy Williams
Commentaires