Turning off the Lights by Tishani Doshi
These walls are from yesterday.
Today, rain falls like history,
and trees speak of distant woes.
My father stands on a cliff
contemplating childhood.
By afternoon, the world has changed,
become smaller,
desolate.
All this is nothing —
these red leaves on autumn walks,
these planets hurtling from long ago.
Later, we may dream of fires
and singing.
The house will open her doors
for the dark, salty territory of night
to enter on wet footstep,
falcon wing.
My father comes in to turn off the lights.
Together, he says,
we must call in the lost,
breathe shape into all that is vanishing. Art by Sasha Haritonova
Recommended listening: Podcast: Brains On
Links of the Day: David Hockney's Home Bodies of Emotion: An update from Alex Stoddard Skaters Put an Art-Deco Half-Pipe Inside an Iconic 1920s Skyscraper