Trobriand Cricket

Devyani Srinivasan


The game begins when a swarm of men

dip, in unison

buzz, lightness rising

fills bare chests, inflates through their wings

and is pulled, with a hiss

through their fingertips.


In song, threatening

the black magic of flight,

the momentum of a ball in motion.


It’s been too long,

since the last white man left.


Or perhaps aeroplanes and cricket

arrived on the islands, already dismantled

iron frames and rules ballast

leaving only the imagination to give shape

to the persistent truth of wanting to move.