Birth

There are so many births
in my mind

like benches rowed
in a class room,
and each of them
born as children of silence.

When I don’t forget
about somebody else
like my father’s life
between birth and death;
he never ate
chopped onions in raw.

The layers of seven lives
rained on me
sometimes like
frozen smell of dead fish
flights of crow
over my bald head
crush of sugar canes

flowing to disposable
glass tumbler,
and, displacement of time and space
in a broken slate disfigured
alphabet of my birth.