Long before I buried my father, he had decided to come back as a flying fish. Now when the brow of my ship scythes through the dull grey ocean, he leaps over the iron hull, slicing the air heavy with smog.
Crossing the gun, the anchor and the cables in one easy flight, he mocks my unease, my iron-clad misery and the gut wrenching bile whose colour I can taste over my thick tongue.
half way through the sound of church bells rusting
– Paresh Tiwari