On the eve of mourning.
Ganga moonlight shimmers.
Hallowed soul… ancient spirits.
Steps falling into water.
Hazy, lazy, rolling.
Completeness, full circle… transcendent.
Circled blood red sun.
Bells clanging, clanging.
Dust to dirt and dirt to dust… dependent.
Ever changing, ever remaining, always the same.
Remember the time our mothers tagged our body parts with our fingers as pointers we learnt that the white space with black clots
Busy. It is not a word of an excuse but an affirmation that priorities change and people too. Busy. When it comes like an uninvited guest in our words, we break and fall apart as a fragile glass flower vase.…
Mother is telling meTo stop writing angry poetry.She wonders where the blood comes from –Did I breed this violence, birth it from a lifeless form?Did I nurture it with hate and sun it with rage?Did I fight a war and…
I am not used to seeing mother cry,So, every time I see those rosy cheeks wet,I cry myself, because her tearsAre a shrine and a curse, and I bow down to themWith nothing to offer them, but more of themselves.…
i am beautiful until i take my clothes off/ and before the mirror, i stand/ starred (scarred)/ a constellation of/ all the things i hate/ a galaxy of stains, a solar system of blemishes/ and meteors that crack my surface. i…
I sit on the ceiling (I am a mosquito.)I see her wriggling like a worm She cries, she smilesShe cries, she smiles… My air is in hers,It’s plagued with misery There! Her face melts away And yellow wounds come alive…
You asked my name And my whispered response scattered in the wind
My body is ripped by the scars of your memories. It is slowly inhaling my soul into it.
Why is it that wherever I go, I feel like I am a stranger. Nothing feels like home. If there is a home, where is it?
You’re the moonlight far across an ocean, in a midst of a forest. You’re the colors of a rainbow after the first rain.
Why are you far from me? My heart saddens knowing the distance. Oh dear, please come back! Your sweetheart awaits.
Fuzaila Khan’s tries to explain the angst she feels to her Amma, a Mother, who never listens. Some days, I screech the window panes To uncover the deafening layers of my being. On others, I scrape through my flesh To…