Friday Poem

Phone Call on a Train Journey

The smallest human bone in the ear
weighs no more than a grain of rice.

She keeps thinking it means something
but probably is nothing.

Something’s lost, she craves it
hunting in pockets, sleeves,

checks the eyelets in fabric.
Could you confirm you were his sister?

When they pass her his rimless glasses,
they’re tucked into a padded sleeve;

several signatures later,
his rucksack is in her hands

(without the perishables),
lighter than she had imagined.

by Mona Arshi
from Small Hands
Liverpool University Press, Liverpool, 2015