“Drops”, a poem

One year back:
Listening to the sound of someone
Washing the dishes in Rome.
In New York

Bullet knowing its very way

But early May
Circus removers
Emptied my palms

Nothing compared
Salty shallow mud
After crystal champagne

Did you survive us?
Was righteous right?
Shouldn’t perfect slay it?

Promise-keeper Monica counts the casualties:
two

Where are you mom and dad
Sisterly brother
Secret sharer

Come claim me
I’m yours
Can be found