star struck

I am shy. My English is not that good you see.

Sometimes, I see you in the photograph of that magazine

I get houseflies in my belly

I stand on the balcony, playing with the end of my braid

It avoids the ends from cutting, ma says

And the coconut oil turns into ghee in them

The rowdy boys from the next dirty building

Once or twice, wave their hands at me or sing

But my eyes are stuck on you only

You never come to this city, they say

Because we are far from the train stop

But I have no river here for you to take the boat

The flowers are blooming big and orange

The curtains are smelling of orange flowers

And my eyes are dark from all the kohl

Then the burning smell; I left the rice on

Now it is sticking to the bottom of the pan

No food tonight even, but you are there no!

A Positive

She smiles a broken one

It’s a bit lopsided, with hints of saliva

Dribbling down the side

That she can’t quite wipe off

With a tender hand, she reaches out

To touch a smaller one

That trembled in fear and wonder

She comforts, without any comforting

A missing toe, a mangled nose

Distorted lips minus the colour

A damp white sheet, washed once

Transformed into her saving grace

The tiny little face stares at her

Her dishevelled hair lay flat

As she twisted her little thumb

Around one cooperating curl

Ten years, seven months and eight days

Not quite enough to kill her soul

As he broke her body little by little

She just smiled. And kept on smiling