Imogen WadeI told people that the travel sickness pills
made me stupid. I entered JFK with a red suitcase and no one to greet me. A man came up to me, dressed in black. I found myself in a car park by an expensive van and he was holding my luggage. Get In, he said. There wasn’t a single thought in my head. I found myself inside his van; he locked the doors immediately after; made me switch my phone off as we went under the bridge. We spoke about Niagara Falls. He chose the narrowest roads in the city, a needle making a joke out of Manhattan. When he pulled up outside Grand Central station, he said – don’t get out, there are bad people around. He made me unzip my suitcase, books and bras spilling over the seat, and give him all my money. Then he helped me out of the van like I was a princess; he held my bags like a vassal and kissed my cheek. Get In, I hear whenever a man pushes me too far; Get In to my big black car. Sometimes in my dreams, I am sitting beside him on the leather; I don’t need to be ordered and together, we drive with melodious speed over the East River. Comments are closed.
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EditorPOET Deol Patrons:
Professor Balkar Singh. Author and Director of the World Punjabi Centre, Punjab University, Patiala, India. Ekh Ong kaar Kaur Khalsa Author, Kundalini Yoga teacher and Sikh Dharam Minister. USA Kivumbi Earnest Benjamin. Journalist and Environmentalist. Director of Heal The Planet Uganda. Archives
October 2023
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