Four Seasons, Chicago by Kandala Singh

In my country, women sew silences in colorful cloth.

Four Seasons, Chicago

by Kandala Singh¹

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Downtown, buildings have muted
         their eyes. A pigeon pecks a piece
                            of chipped Chagall mosaic,

sits on a moment
          that has a flower in it.
                     Assemblage is an ancient art.

In my country, women sew
                  silences in colorful cloth.
                            Here, the city swirls in broken

chroma. The river pulses
           blue at the waist. I search
                                     for joy in slashed

columns of sky. Sift debris for new
                                 gods: brighter, plastic, more
                                          elastic. Become a smoker, add

to the greedy river. Look
               how it meanders, gathers
                          wilting bits to make a whole.

1. First published in Southeast Review