(I thought it lost
like a gate left open
or a one-winged parenthesis,
the hooked talon
my father brought back from India
in 1932, and later gave to me
when I was eight.
I blamed my brother
for not taking better care of it,
for leaving the gate open,
yet five decades later
when it re-emerged
among my mother’s things
I recognised it instantly
like an old dream burst into life.
Nestled in a drawer
among tarnished coins and rings,
a substantial collection of dust,
I was amazed how memories
lie dormant in vivid sleep.
How long it took grief to fade
from the miscellany of emotions.
How long it took to bury
with the other dead.
Close brackets.)
