Grave Poem by Akhil Zoomin

I my father and brother
share the neighbouring tombs

My brother and I peek-a-boo
Every night changing
positions of the graves

My father doesn't speak much
he wouldn't even shout on us
not to fight
like he used to do back then

We don't know who
but on every
eighteenth of december
we listen someone sobbing
at our graves and pouring some wine

The plants suck the wine
and
send our share of it
through the roots