Wednesday, June 15, 2005


All his cars were red.
First a Cheverolet that was too big to park,
And then a deep-red Datsun that faded with age;
All his cars were shades of red
Like blood, in different stages of clotting,
Or fresh bruises on skin.

Then one day came a Merc, white,
As though purged from sins.
I opened a black-curtained window
And remembered the toy car he bought me
Replacing the gray Ferrari that fell from the third floor
And broke into pieces.

That day I was twelve, and the window
Was 16 floors above the toy Merc,
I looked down
And saw his snow white car
Turn bright red with my blood.
He won’t be able to make water out of wine anymore.



Lovely poem, lovelier last line!

Pragya said...

It was a pleasure reading this again. Thanks for posting it here.


Jinx said...

The comment below was for this *sheepish grin*.