Sunday, May 06, 2012

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