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Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
wind blistered water
stars collapse into redwood
love the outer ring
an attempt at a haiku
Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
Hi everyone!

One of the reasons I've been quiet the last two weeks or so is because I've been setting up my first poetry e-book.

This week I have it on sale on Kindle for $0.99. You can get it here if you are interested: getbook.at/ShyAnger

Otherwise, next time I post, I'll have another poem. :-)
Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
plastic:
straight, good posture
white and abrasive as baking soda
thrifty, ideal of motherhood
hosting new years parties and other
get-togethers for the kids while sipping,
socially, of course, a margarita,
she buys her children, ruddy-nosed
devils, gifts while their friends stand with empty hands,
letting those other kids,
kids with empty pockets,
sit to the side,
and know their place.

steel:
another mother she
drives thirty miles to pick up a daughter’s friend,
male, lanky, and for cops
the wrong color at midnight
from a gas station in the wrong part of town
which is really just code
for poor and less white
and she takes him home to
sleep on the sofa
gives him hot tea
and in the morning pancakes with eggs
she doesn’t ask about the bruises
on his forearms or his heart
she just feeds him and drives him
to the library with a sandwich in old Tupperware
he doesn’t need to return
although he does with a thank-you note
and gratitude in his heart,
despite all the bitterness around him.
Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
You want to roast me like an eggplant, all brittle flakes and bleeding oil, as if that puckered off-white skin underneath reveals significant sins. But I’m a ******* diamond. Not rare or edible or remotely useful, you’ll only find the stubborn carbon Hollywood calls beautiful. They fail to mention, or maybe you forgot, I was born bearing the earth on my back and my crucible of 2000 degrees makes your stove look like a nightlight.

So if you want to cut me to watch me break, be careful - I’ll shatter your knife.
Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
stove juts out
stuns in sixty-year-old kitchen
shiny, electric,
everyone marvels
so much better than the gas stove
as if the functions are not the same.
I, misled, maybe
have no newfound love
for false hearths
and work dens masquerading as homes.
we never knew food
just kosher salt, pepper, ketchup
a dash of rosemary
yet our curves labored, steamed hours
heaped over knotted heels
at the end of the workday
you were so tired
and we ate whatever you could manage.

I desired to taste liberty,
imagined I had it on a slow burner
simmering with
coriander seeds, cumin, cinnamon
chili powder bleeding into broth
parsley finely cut
into slivers for garnish grew
dry in my hands,
waiting.

Somehow I ended up
back in that same kitchen
a dream at my lips,
hungrier than before.
Another reminder that if you want a free ARC of my poetry collection, just write me a message. :-)
Kelsey Banerjee Aug 2020
she serves silence,
it lies on the tongue
like ash.
her quiet cuts
jagged,
tears the hem of my heart
I unravel,
and she throws my words away
with burnt-black peppers.
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