He seems to have been invented
for the sole purpose of becoming extinct
and that was all he was good for. ― Will Cuppy

Each step up the staircase, each simple heartbeat
brings me closer to you, dearest dodo. Its feels
like I’ll see your face amidst fireworks cutting
diamonds on air and sending up imperious stars.
The only good I can do in this city’s emptiness
is to anticipate your squawk. Remember, when
the sun sets for a last time this year, we’ll borrow
wings and fly into the night full of fast clouds
and falling fire. Strumming my guitar, I’ll watch
over your yellow feet, your green beak, your
curly feathers, with you preening in the top of
the wood, in the convenience of the high trees,
with our heads locked into the light of the stars.
But reaching the rooftop I meet only a ghost.
Surrendering myself to each memory of you, I
forego a nameless tear. I go down, nuts in hand,
seeds in pockets. I now wish to see you in my
room and fool the whole world, cracking jokes
with you, rolling on the ecstatic floor. But the
butterfly clock on the wall whispers to me
that you’ve gone to sleep early today, somewhere
special, with the cats, the dogs and the monkeys.

Because the love of a mother
starts before birth, her love will endure
long after death. ― Franchesca Cox

It’s not my fault at all that you won’t be here
to reap what you’ve sown.
I’ll be more beautiful than you’d ever think
in front of the mirror.
It’s not my fault at all that you won’t be here
to see dad’s ageing face and his love for you.
His creases would each lead to you.
It’s not my fault that you won’t be here
when I don’t have the words and smile
to help my big sister.
I’m sure, she won’t be what you wanted.
Know that I was the one in charge of
your make-up when you lay inert on your bier.
I didn’t know it was the last time I’d do so.
Know that when you went away
I had confused tears and even smiled
a couple of times with my uncles and cousins.
You went to be burnt near the mountain
we’d all watch from our terrace.

Why did you take such a painful decision
to stop seeing your children?
Weren’t we perfect little people,
people that shared your eyes
and their dad’s nose?
Didn’t we bring you enough joy?

What’s bad these days is that your departure
has divided the family.
Grandmother, who was always so cruel with you,
has accused two aunts of witchcraft on you.
For a couple of months, dad grew
such a big moustache and morose beard
that we feared they would stop his mouth for ever.
Know that it’s not my fault at all.

We know who the real villain is but cannot say
so. For now, you come to me in waves,
bathing me in relief, then uncertainty,
in elation, then nostalgia.
Then something I can’t explain drowns me.
You are amazing, you are wonderful.
You are loved, dearest mother.
I’ll wait for you each time it rains.

I am the dragonfly rising on the wings
of unlocked dreams
on the verge of magical things. — Aimee Stewart

Why dragonfly? To fly among fire-breathing
dragons on the way to mythical adventures?

My little sister spots the dead dragonfly roasting
in the middle of the road.
A blue orifice in the tar in this drought of sincerity.
She hesitates to hesitate and picks it up.

Maybe an arrogant car slapped it down.
Maybe a jet of smoke stroked it to its death.
Or it is just the end of the adventure.

We continue our way home, my sister with
her dragonfly, I with my new haircut.
She decides to write a poem about it.
A police van veers.
Tell them a valiant dragonfly is dead, I say.
You are trapped, she tells me,
now you are going to be in the poem too,
with your weird head. We laugh.

At home, she tries to frighten grandmother
with it but she isn’t scared.
We are not surprised; she has other worries.
Maybe grandfather’s drinking and continual absence.

Then she puts it on her table and writes on it:
Dead Dragonfly. Quite a simple title, but
she keeps it for the alliteration.
Better fly she tells it. Or drag on.
It doesn’t and has to incur the anger of her pencil.

She then keeps the dragonfly in the Bible
one of my friends gave her, closing it very carefully.
The book closes as if nothing has been.

I try to find the dragonfly in her absence.
Which page? Where? Which—
Hearing her footsteps, I close the book and put it back.

At night, after singing her
to sleep, I open the Bible to the exact page.
I see the blue dragonfly is alive, ready to fly.

Amit Parmessur, Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius