Last night I hummed “The full moon’s dream
spills over the yard of jasmine scent” --
my dead mother’s forgotten melody.
A narrow sky hung, paled by a stream
of fluorescent urban flicker and din;
and you railed that I was distant, moody.
I saw your drooping, dark eyebrow
and tried to quell an internal panic –
I thought of poets who, before and now,
sensing the screech owl’s murderous tic,
cried out like Jibanananda Das --
“Stability, when will you come to us?”