Calcutta
My father left behind movie theaters
of decaying grandeur; red carpets gone black,
grimy chandeliers half-lit at intermission
double matinees, afternoons spent with strangers
He left rickshaws pulled by sinewy men,
who carried him through crooked streets
to stand in front of faded facades
and speak the names of people long gone
He has left behind the concrete steps
leading to the green-walled room inhabited
by the cataracted aunt who remembered him
as a little boy and kissed him on the cheeks.
He has sought for the last time the overgrown
headstones of ancestors that only he knew
how to find in the corners of swampy graveyards.
Palms cupped, three fatehas before turning away.
