For Balbir Singh Sodhi
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Mornings spent always the same: your lips forming a line
Like the horizon squeezing itself against the naked land until drops
Of blue & violet bleed out. Roadrunners’ twiggy limbs casting
Zigzagging shadows. Headlights blinking awake on rolling hills. Your face
Ripe with the morning cold. Bombay Sapphire––one shot
Snaking down your throat. Then prepare to run
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the gift of a green card. Mama’s tears run
Through glitchy WhatsApp calls some days, the line
Cutting any hope of assurance. Some days, she takes a shot
At asking a question. “Coming home?” Her eyes drop
& then you swallow. The selfie screen a blank face
Of arrogance. Mama shaking her head. She cast
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Away your dreams for her comfort. In Jalandhar, you cast
Pennies into ponds before your flight. Some run
Of luck that Mama didn’t kill you at the gate. Still face
Her reappearing questions each morning. A line
Of big burly motorbikers sliding you pennies for drops
Of espresso, which you call justification. You took one shot
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& payoff’s late. But Mama doesn’t see the flu shots
& Hondas. The interstate wind combing your scalp. Casts
& crutches for you & you & you. Mama doesn’t see the desert drop
Uneven sands. Slithering canals. Little runs
Of water spilling into the front door. Doesn’t see the mop become a fishing line
Like in Jalandhar with Papa. Carp & catfish. The clock face
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Fading away. The engine sputters. Mama doesn’t see you face
The pickup truck. The window rolled down, the man ready to take a shot
Five times mumbling & rumbling various lines
That the Gods in his head cast
Him to say. Mama doesn’t stop your blood from running
Down the front door. She doesn’t hear your body drop
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Onto the hard tile floors. Mama doesn’t see you die. She’ll hear CNN drop
Your mispronounced name. Your face
Burnt like a ghost onto her TV & his & theirs, run
For the first time from America back to India. They will show one shot
Of your Chevron. Mama will see its neat shelves & clean tiles. Customers will cast
You into a shrine & Mama will visit it when she lands, lips a quivering line.
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Mama will face God & you will respond instead. Tear drops & blood lines
Traded for something Mama will not see: that to run to America was to cast a line & wait
For your shot––stronger than the one that Mama will blame.
–Yash Wadwekar
Illustrations by Alicia Gan.