Poetry

Shadows writhe on familiar walls
that’ve held you in for all this time.
Insufferably together.

A flame dares to pierce the dark
between you. It lights up her face–
a blotchy, tired thing.

Yellow paper-skin rips and tears
around her swollen cheeks and sunken eyes.
She won’t look at you,

so she watches the flame.
Her mirror eyes glow and burn,
determined to un-see you.

Her trembling fingers curl absently
around a bottle that isn’t there.
You think of asking her

to smash it against the wall,
and thrust those jagged glass ends
right through your gut.

But she’s already gathered the shards.
She cups them, gently, in bruised palms,
and swallows them one by one.

You both know it’s killing her,
but her insides are done screaming.
So are you.

When she’s finished
she smiles a wide, toothy grin.
For a moment, she is Mom again.

But her smile is different now– farther away.
She extracts a glass shard from her liver,
and holds it out to you:

a peace offering from the woman
who doesn’t love you enough
to try to love herself too.

And, goddamn her, you take it.
You name it Resentment,
and you put it in your pocket.

With a breath she doesn’t have,
she blows out the flame.
You leave and take Resentment with you.

And later, you hold it tightly in your hands
when you’re alone.
You rename it Longing.

You put it back in your pocket,
and think of yellow.

In response to “Girl” by Jamaica Kincaid

Cover your head when you enter the gurdwara—what have your parents taught you; the white
boy is not your boyfriend but just a friend; this is how you suck in your stomach; no pain, no
gain; go to mom if you want to be emotional; you are supposed to understand the subtleties of
the unspoken human language; this is how you smile through pain; this is how you set the
example; try and look pretty; you are falling behind—try to catch up; this is how you hold your
tongue; this is how you let others win; this is how you share with your brother; this is how you
give in to him; this is why you are the badha putt; this is how you let others make their own
mistakes; this is how you break yourself down; this is how you come close to ruining others; this
is how you hide; this is how you make your boundaries known; you are not a blade of grass–do
not bend with the wind; this is how you fix starvation amongst the elderly–humor the old ladies
by answering their questions. Their hearts can’t beat without gossip; don’t let your spirit wilt; if
they don’t want you, they never deserved you; this is how you’re forgotten; this is how you thrive
in the shadows; Jo bole so nihal; wait for your applause–it is coming; Sat sri akal; waiting is
overrated.

The click of my fingertips
Vibrates through the air
If I hit the keys just right
It’s feels like playing a piano

You used to play Piano Man
Your fingers made noise with more than one note
And you would cry
When I would tell you it was bad

I can hear you singing Amy Winehouse
Throaty and off-key. Your nostrils would flare and
Your fingers would rise like hot air balloons
But that’s all I remember

That and
The pancakes we used to fry
You told me they were vampire pancakes
Red with stale food coloring

Have you ever loved someone
So fiercely
That when you spoke to them
Your computer almost broke?

I try to talk to my little brother once in a fortnight
But he’s playing Fortnight.
Do you remember
Building forts at night?

The staples still in the wall
Are buried under copper paint
We were the world
Before the earthquake

Before the earth
Cried so loud it moved
And so did we
I thought you were dead so I left

When I think about you I hurt
I stare at the one sided window I carry
But all I can see is
Poor connection against gray light