"After The Funeral" by Bhavna Parmar

I went to uncle’s house after the funeral —

the house was filled with water.

I couldn’t see my legs once I entered.

People stood on chairs to breathe.

Children on their swim rings to stay alive.

Everyone in the house,

except the family,

tried to find the tap left open.

Nobody could ask or speak about the tap,

the outline of the house’s inside,

or the water.

Cousins held shut

the doors of other rooms —

so no one could see

what the water touched.

The wife of the youngest cousin

watched over the boiling tea.

The baby lay on the bed,

awake with no tears.

Aunt sat in the corner of the living room —

Mom trying to flatten the corner into a straight wall.

I couldn’t hold what was offered to me —

I let it float on the water.

Bhavna Parmar is a poet, developer, and pharmacist who explores what’s left behind—by birds, by people, by time. Her poems often feel like quiet rooms where grief, beauty, and memory sit together without speaking.