Four Poems by Laila Brahmbhatt

 

1. 

Always in a hurry 
my heart, still searching for him, 
a lost lottery ticket, 
sailing through the Milky Way. 

An extra layer of mud 
over the hairline-fractured 
roses—aching, too, for rain. 

An old alarm clock 
croons to the empty chairs 
outside the station, 
shaking hands with time. 

This, and everything, 
when there is the moon 
and you.

 

2. 

Prophet of the spring, 

fall kindly. 

 

Disturb not their own 

relatives, drunk 

on their own fragrance.

 

3. 

Champa Phool 

Water lilies drape the New York sky. 
The stars are on break, off trekking— 
each one glowing like a bride 
just past the vows. 

The Champa tree is drunk 
on its own scent. Flowers 
mate wildly in the branches 
until a crow caws—startling the lovers 
on the bench below, 
midway through choosing dinner. 

She craves bhapa illish. 
He wants mishti doi. 

Her chipped nail reveals 
a patch of seashell-pink skin. 
Skin, like the stars, longs 
to go home— 
while lovers quarrel 
over what to eat.

 

4. 

If I were learning to write a poem, 
I’d begin with rain. 
I’d think of you— 
a sensation sealed 
in an envelope, 
undelivered. 

A wet breath, pressed between 
pages. 
I’d think of you.

Laila Brahmbhatt is a writer with roots in Kashmir. Her ancestors came from that beautiful region of India and eventually settled in Bengal and Bihar, where she spent her early years.

For the past 14 years, she has worked as a Senior Immigration Consultant in New York. Her haiku have been published in various international magazines, including Cold Moon Journal, Fresh Out Magazine, and her haibun in Failed Haiku. Her work has also appeared in Under the Basho, Five Itchy Poetry, and Nii Journal.