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Payday: A Sestina

For Balbir Singh Sodhi

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 

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

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

& 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

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

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. 

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.

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