a mother’s heart

the lover’s longing

an aching heart

a wandering mind

an unsettled soul

 

if you gather them

around a pit of fire

under a star lit sky

 

I tell you –

 it will be a dance to remember.

 

and if you were to only dig a little deeper,

you will find them all

within you

 

like embers.

 

and when the fire is out

and the embers are glowing,

it’s time to call it a night.

 

I hope our silence is worth it.

Perhaps, I should write you a note.

But the wind and the rain and the clouds and the mountains,

carry your voice to me.

===

I feed on  -

a broken twig,

looming dark clouds,

coffee mugs.

 

I see these as signs

of you missing me.

===
 

Scars

Loved twice
Left once
Healed never.

Ode to Kurup's note

Kurup said I no longer have my fangs,

that my fins cease to lift and thrust,

my tailwinds and headwinds are switched.

 
I am Arethea Franklin’s rose,

with Frank O’Hara’s heart.

 

 

Neruda meant my love,

in, if he forgets me.

 

See my notorious RBG pin, on

my starch ironed handloom saree.

 

I wake 48 mins before sun rise,

in my dream.

 

The smell of jasmine is still me,

and in me.

 
I keep house and overwater

my house plants.

 
Tea at 5, coffee till 10.

 

Always, I am my father’s daughter, first.

 
Still short of an orange-robe, while

strumming my sitar.

 

A wizened silk-cotton tree,

on a verdant valley.

 

Waiting and waiting,

and waiting.

 
See, Kurup –

I don’t have to start all over again, for

I was never gone.