my story is being told
the warmth of her lap
nested my being
in her body’s texture and fold
a story remained untold
the wrinkle around her eye
held my sky
the pores on her face
bled into the ink on my page
her legs itched
her elbow cried through scratchy years
in my tears
her silver hair shined wisely
on my skin
her brow was thick
like her blood running in my vein
she had fingers of many kind
but the one I remember holding
is still mine
grandmother is long gone
but her warm lap nests my being
in her body’s texture and fold
my story is being told
She is born
When a sigh is sealed in the innermost drawer
When a virgin tear is slammed by the eyelid
When a fear is too afraid to come out
When an ounce of joy spills on the entire sky
When the unspoken message is ready to push out
Just like when a baby is born
The heart starts peeling its layers-
One by one by one, and then the last
In that tender moment:
Poetry takes birth
Rejoice, she is born!
(First Published in Wise Owl, 2023)
At My Funeral
A man, he was, I think.
A pair of solid arms,
Swinging like bands of a rainbow to
Embrace me divinely.
Somewhat visible within
Inches of my consciousness,
Breathing by my breaths.
His breaths ran past the second,
I hit my thresholds.
A man, he was, I think.
Treating my corpse with
Gentlemanly grace at my funeral.
Who else would put a woman’s needs first?
Whether or not I was alive,
His priority did not change.
Yet working hard to mask his tears,
(To match social expectations)
At the loss of his loved one.
The one carrying this ordeal of a task:
A man, he was, I think.
My man, he was, I know.
(First Published in Different Truths, May 2022)
My Street
Shiny porous skin and
eyes full of story. Sun's sweet heat
glowing on its loose gravelled
face. Rainwater resting in its
pits like the sweat of a playful child.
The branchy mango tree-- its
braided hair. My street.
My street stood only laps
away from the Mini-Market
where flavours of childhood were sold.
The Mini Market is still
booming with new little customers.
A parade of unfamiliar vendors
walks with their better-looking fruit.
Stressed birds flutter around
unopened newspapers.
My innocent street is now
populated with swapped
owners. Some memories
are buried under their houses
which colonized
the untitled playgrounds.
Play may be happening
somewhere else now. Mothers
worry little ones
could get lost on busy streets.
Just as small streets get lost
in a big world.
Time has travelled me far
beyond that street. I am tired.
But my childhood continues to
play over there. By itself.
On that street, where I grew up
and where I continue to grow
by mind's extension. That street
which pushes me to the sky
and then stands for me
open-armed in my mind's vision.
(First Published by Setu, February 2021)
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