In this poem, bruises are measured with the pinch of a finger.
the night floated with a crave for voices;
you unearthed your heart
searched your ears for a last beep of any voice, even a laugh
because this world is strange but what’s more weird is
how each passing moment throws you into a mysterious frenzy
of what could have worked. you checked your feet, it ached.
ached from a journey you thought had ended. more damning
than the mere thought that what/who you call home is
only a steam in a kettle— it never stays.
you leap & the distance keeps running…
this life must go & you must go too.
every gust that returns from the sand surf
roam on the feather of memories-
of perils acknowledged by wayfarers
of thirsty camels lumbering, howling with their jugular
perhaps an oasis may spring nearby.
one evening, the sun quenches its thirst while
men struck their heads on the ground
in adulation, many times, in silence
fingers & heartbeats, counting
until they arose, and the moon flickered from their foreheads.
how wondrous it is, that dusts could birth light?
beneath their palms are treasures
cosmic as the numerous enclaves minds could mould
say, the earth is infinite, refined with grains of dust or memories;
refined with thoughts that could wedge a stream
every thought of man, like himself, inspires dust
every man is consecrated with his own vanity;
and dust is [not] vain, neither this memory chasing the wind.
the first poem you wrote after she became a bird is that:
if she were a dove, she’d bear home on her back & return
but when you saw an owl; you knew that night offers no hope—
though dawn tried to flicker its rays on your forehead.
in your meditation, you saw a gale blowing by the stream.
you washed your weariness by a pool. tried to hold her
in your arms. you came nearer & she dissolved
like a gust of glucose lulling on the tongue.
you waited, stared at the nothingness she became
& you went back to bath your weariness a second time.
some say, someday her wings will dust itself above your roof;
you watch them feed their hearts butter & milk.
hope does get fat. when it gets plump, it’s called faith.
you have faith, but you have never tried it on what’s lost.
