Father

by | Jun 3, 2024 | Poetry

caress, his wrinkled finger along the lobe of her ear,
earrings dangling, lingering silver.
silvered moon, crescent and virtually extinct,
extinction of her perfume as they dance,
dancing, my mother in the lead.
leading father, his fingers round the fabric, feel its texture at her waist
wasted. wasted at the thought of her,
her hair which parted, bridge a space on her furrowed forehead,
forehead to kiss.
kiss her again,
against a pretence of obligation.
obliged to love her and be,
be her lover, though his love for her changed.

Uncle

by | Jun 3, 2024 | Poetry

from a hint of petrichor on its collision with the dirt,
to a mumble in the streets and a damp sidewalk,
i conjure your memory.

i imagine you, only a boy enslaved in the body of a man, as he guides his niece down a memory,
hauntingly familiar.in awe of unscathed innocence, gently observant of its course.

a strange joy conceives a moment, ignorant of consequence,
soiled sandals didn’t spare her toes, the tips of her pants bathed in rain,
all five of her fingers manage their way round one of yours.

you yearn for the youth age deceived you was absent,
there was a wisdom laced in her crooked vocabulary,
you loved her a little more,
when you saw yourself in her blithe.

Mother

by | Jun 3, 2024 | Poetry

she told me i look beautiful when i cry.
flushed cheeks of velvet and puddled eyelids,
did i really look beautiful mother?

at my feet saw an orbit of tears pooled beyond a horizon,
the pale waters distorted, but i finally looked like you.
to watch my reflection in the foreign symmetry of your face,
left me bewildered.

did you, too, find a twisted solace in quiet cries?
mother, how don’t you see that beauty you found in my sunken eyes,
to see it for you?

the gutted feeling of seeing the strongest person you know refuse to surrender to her pain, when she too, taught you the beauty of release. a concept introduced to me by my father talks about viewing conflict with people as mirrors, as reflections.

Dream

Dream

by | Jun 3, 2024 | Poetry

her toes tease the pull my feet lay idle on.
i am drawn by almond clefts that claim eyes,
saw a scene i can’t recall.

i want to touch her, is she soft?
or are her fingertips calloused with the earth’s dirt she doesn’t bother shed?

i crouch to her level, fumbling for a dialogue that can gauge her attention,
undivided at the skies instead.

i wonder then perhaps, does she find me beautiful?
she doesn’t hold a gaze to my face,
maybe I am unimpressive then

my hand grapples a weight latched to my chest,
but is catching cloth that clings to trembling skin.

i am terrified of you,
till dainty fingers lace themselves around mine.

i want to hold you,
i want you to like me,
we can’t.

then i wake and she’s gone,
left only at the pit of my chest like residual tar,
because she wasn’t meant to be here.

she was destined for the beautiful part of a daydream,
and me as heavy bones to evolve farther apart from her.

this poem captures a moment in a dream where i met my younger self. i found that i admired her but she was indifferent toward me. the more we gained proximity and interaction, the more detached she became. it is a piece of admiration toward what i used to be and the inability to recognise what i have become today.

Conversation

Conversation

by | Jun 3, 2024 | Prose

the far corner of an extravagant house sits a round table for four, but with three guests today, they pull out a few extra chairs. placed on a straw mat, a ceramic plate of Sindhi curry and rice; my favourite. i pick at it with a fork, until the conversation piques my interest.

UNCLE
…did you ever wonder why is it that nails and hair seem to grow but our bodies cease to after a point?

it’s an analogy for what he further attempts to explain are the mysteries of cancer cells, i gather.

UNCLE
as cells grow, get sick, and die, they transfer information to the next cell. like tan on skin sheds over time through the regrowth of cells, organ cells perish too, but keep growing and transferring information to the next cell. yet, if a sick cell dies, it transfers to the next cell information that it is sick, and so the new cell grows to be sick as well. which is why cancer cells grow.

there is a silent cheer across the table at his revelation—slightly fallen jaws with no noise.

UNCLE
…to prevent that growth, scientists are attempting to intercept that information passage. claims are even made that meditation can access that space – but it is all speculation.

talk about cancer arises from the inevitable conversation of Aunty’s current state, and her body’s refusal of chemotherapy. when the word is mentioned, her husband questions,

 

 

HUSBAND
what is chemotherapy?

UNCLE
the treatment undergone for those who are diagnosed with cancer.

HUSBAND
just like my wife.

UNCLE
yes.

i find the conversation timidly fascinating, a saddening revel in the decay of human life. at a junction, as i tune back in, uncle mentions,

[which I immediately write down]

UNCLE
if you conquer the brain, then you are God.

he tells us more, more about medicine, more about the vitality of a second opinion and real accounts of its failures. how the heart remembers to beat – after being removed, stopped, and then performed open heart surgery on. i’m fastened to my chair, even when my mother’s friend offers me escape. once again, at the mention of chemotherapy, almost as if the heart can forget, her father asks,

HUSBAND
what is chemotherapy?

patiently, they explain.