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 not the same.

this poem what i perceive are the two stages of marital love – initial lust and aged comfort. the transition of when the initial half of the poem leaks into the latter is blurry, as are the boundaries of when lust ages to comfort.

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 coarse,
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 yearned 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, reflections of that internal conflict.

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’m 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
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 bones with flesh 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 hence a piece of admiration toward what i used to be and the inability to understand 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. 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 on 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.