Analysis of The Memory of Zanib

We sit together in
the humid room of
her empty apartment,
waiting for the buzz
of the fan to subside,
washing away the heat.
We pull out a well-worn
board and place it betwixt
us, tumbling ludo pieces
thunk against the cardboard
as the force of the past compels us…

In exotic Gujarat, more than
55 years ago, she last felt
his commanding presence,
as he held court, familiar
smooth marble beneath her
hand, and the smell of cumin
and coriander riding the kitchen's
heat currents, to consume the night-

Broken English shatters against
my ear, the clash of metal
on metal. Bony fingers advance
a red piece, ice cold blade meets
balmy throat, a bath of blood. Fleshy fingers
trace the peeling path of the dice,
fleeing figures slide on iron red garden trails.

Before us is his final battle cry
and the warm ooze of blood
conversing with sword,
as the invaders slaughter
the leader of these lands,
and she clutches his grand-child,
tasting salt.

The buzzing of the fan
softens to a hum

and the dusty blades blur time.