Rhea Ramakrishnan

Three Haikus, Two Tanka

 By choice, not design

I stay stuck in this dry wound

That cannot mother.

The desert’s spring moods

Are as flighty as my own,

Slow, I come unspooled,

The other line clicks,

The dishes stack in the sink—

I am still running

The loop alongside

The elephant enclosure.

She’s stiller than I

Enveloped within a box

Smaller than my own. Last week

A small, clean woman

stood at the doorstep and asked

Where are my daughters?

Her fists ready to throw wind,

My eyes darting like finches.