habit, hope, illuminations

A river to forget and another to remember

Here again every evening, like a ritual
I hear this ruckus of seagulls,
so far inland and no signs of rain.
I search for the meaning of this anomaly –
I’ve heard this primal dance predicts
some kind of mishap – a storm, perhaps
the ground suddenly moving underneath.
Equally violent and buoyant are
the games we play with our watches.
Trying to find in mythos an escape
and a healing, even though we know
Lethe only flows in the caves of Hades.
Yet we return again and again flying
to the planes of forgetfulness
looking for subsistence in leavings.

habit, hope

On Ease

You dream of a place where your body
isn’t the way you protect yourself
where it doesn’t become
the barrier it’s made of itself.

Once in a dream you were infinite like that
everywhere you went- silhouette invisible,
you expanded into oceans, moons & mouths
there was no other.

You reached out and could not see
the edge of your hand, your hair, your breast
everything had turned to forests
claiming you, teaching you how to be.

habit, illuminations

For those of us who live in the middle

I trace my steps back,
at the year end.
Look around,
find it altered.

Perhaps my eyes
have shifted shape.
Seeing things,
veiled before.

Perhaps my fingers,
used to the fantastic.
Refuse to accept,
a touch familiar.

The term ‘Home’ confounds me, is it the place where –
roots existed many moons back /
wind has stopped for a bit /
I am yet to go, but already feels mine?

Roots refuse to recognize me,
my body rejects the soil.
For those of us who live in the middle,
perhaps home isn’t a place but a time.


Forever and a day


I once read a story about a woman,
who found emails from her dead fiancé,
and read them to herself every night.
Even the digital, holds on to those we loved.

You’d think everything is ephemeral, a push of a key,
and all evidence disappears. But I still find traces
of your presence here and there are chasms,
even the brightest eyes can’t see.

You only see them when a day spent sketching strangers
turns into a day tracing familiar lines.
Lines that ran across your hand into mine.
Even I can’t draw over paths, on the palms of time.



Today arrived like a matador, deceitfully dressed in finery.
Now, I see the intent, the red cape and the teasing gait.

Reminding me that this day, means nothing
that I aim to run, when I can barely stand up,
that I’m fevered by this new unchaining of my soul.
That today, after so many fights, there is nothing to lose,

That today after so many nights, there is nothing to give.


Transportation of bees


Recently, a keeper of nature told me:

That bees swarm towards the same spot,
even if their home has been moved,
by a careless nudge or a vast design.

For the longest time they continue
to search the doors that no longer exist,
crazed in their thirst for home.

Relocating gracefully, involves
capturing the entire swarm and transporting them
until amnesia is induced successfully.

Nightfall is of the essence.