By Ellen Kombiyil
Eventually, the stars’ far-off headlights
plink off, one by one, in a sky growing
more and more silent. No more humming
from the microwave’s burned out filament.
It will be like how we never met, driving
a mountain path, winding up and up—
Where’s the music? I’d say, the radio’s
turned to static—and the hi-beams we flashed
could never actually connect. I was
rounding one side while you were climbing
the other, just ahead, moving faster
than I could ever breathe.
Ellen Kombiyil is a poet, writer, and writing teacher. Her first book of poetry, “Histories of the Future Perfect,” is forthcoming. Honors include a 2013 nomination for the Pushcart Prize, and a 2012 nomination for Best of the Net. She is a Founding Poet of The (Great) Indian Poetry Collective (www.greatindianpoetrycollective.org), which publishes first and second books showcasing new poetic voices from India. Originally from Syracuse, New York and a graduate of the University of Chicago, for the past 10 years lived in Bangalore. She currently resides in New York.