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(im)personal tragedies: 7

Nimruz De Castro

you sit on the corner

the hum of the old air conditioner

drowning the prayers

your mouth could hardly form

the nurse comes back

a white envelope in her hands

she hands it to you

inside is a single sheet of paper

outweighing all the years you may

or may not have

you wonder how much the mailing cost was

as you tore it open

printed in black ink

and letters your five-year old self

would have had little difficulty reading

was a word your now adult tongue

could not say


the nurse’s eyes are on you

you could tell she wants to say something

before she could

you fold the paper

you stare at the ceiling

the only sound you hear is the old air conditioner’s humming



there is no point in wishing for something

you know only god can give you

and in your experience, he was rarely, if at all, generous


you sigh and ask for rain

Nimruz De Castro never thought he would be a migrant. He thought he would live and die (hopefully for) in his origin country. Now, he is another foreigner in a foreign land. Perhaps, this place is home now. Perhaps, like his poems, he will find comfort in the weather of another land.

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