Even now my fingers feel the touch of sponge; as if my father's body were mutated into an aquatic invertebrate before his last breath. Since then I have been regretting me for escaping the route my father coming after smoking a cigarette. If there were a second coming of the shadow without his body, not in a dream but in real time. I wouldn't repeat that, I promise. I missed the moments I stood on his shadow & listened Afghan rubab in the saffron rays of early spring.
About the Poet:
Palash Mahmud is a bilingual writer, book critic based in Dhaka, Bangladesh. His poetry, literary reviews and criticisms appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Active Muse, League of Poets, Superstition Review, The Punch Magazine, Kitaab, Ephemeral Elegies, The Bosphorus Review of Books, Poetry Potion Trouvaille Review, Poet’s Choice and forthcoming elsewhere. He reads & reviews for Sepia Quarterly.
He writes on his personal blog PM Review. You can also find him palash.mahmud.10 on Facebook & @palashmahmud10 on Twitter. You can email him at email@example.com