There is nothing for us in this countrymy Iraqi
roommate says on second morning
after my arrival in Kelowna, how it breaks down
cut the bread into small pieces and dip them
in cold milk. Excludes $15.65 Daily Hard Work..
He hands me a bowl of grapes and says:
Aren't there good schools in India? I nod;
he nods. We agree on things we disagree on.
fully understand. Swiping your hand
his thick beard, he proclaims like a prophet:
We're here to clean up white people's shit!
Do you know how to clean? I shrug my mind
wavering in a thick fog of melancholy
and separation caused by the desire to escape
or give up. I know a place that will hire
you, but you'll have to piss and shit
your best friend. They even pay extra 2 dollars.
He forces a smile. The kitchen is clogged
the sink slowly suffocates in the sediment of residues,
and I dream of Tamora heaving
and flowing from the foothills of Kanchenjunga,
without bearing the guilt of changing location.
The heaviness seeps into drip, drip, drip
decay. If I were you– he says, looking dreamily
into space, I would finish school and go back to India.
There's nothing for us . . . His beard points
to the east, to an imaginary homeland
he gave it up years ago in hopes of escaping
That desperate and devilishring that echoes
from the shallow waters of Karbala and ends
in leftover Tim Horton's coffee cups.
From Lake between two valleys (Anstruther Press, 2025).
Vivek Sharma is a graduate of the Master of Fine Arts program at the University of British Columbia. His poems appeared in Arc Poetry Magazine, Best Canadian Poetry 2026, Capilano Review, Review of MalahatAnd prairie fire.
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