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.

From the desk
her spine creaks,
each rubbery cartilage
like a phone pole.
each breath realigns
bone and belief  
she types away her thoughts
knuckles thinking faster than
brain cells, and with clacks.
it’s only been four hours,
starting into screen light
she wonders when she’ll see the sun.

forgotten,
egg yolk splits, sautées
golden sun between butter and pepper
white halo hardens, boils bubbling a ***** browning
while the one yellow eye runs
with the clock hands
carefully I peel the rubbery flesh away
lay it on saucer, slather bread with butter
already wondering what wry churns the day brings.

another protest
october sun in knoxville
chilly but
the leaves still shake green
krutch park,
patches of grass brim with bodies
tent *****, occupying
you and I
munch on six dollar subs
after the general assembly
crisp air carrying
the taste of spring
that same elusive flavor
which rolled on the tongue
during Arab Spring. but I
remember
how that ended.

another protest
riots
reading Stonewall
post-MLK assassination
at the Gandhi-King conference
I wonder why there're no children,
just adults, tired,
all their experience
cloistered
in empty classrooms and powerpoints.

another protest,
hands up
blocking intersections
my phone buzzes
but I can’t hear it
"why are you wasting your time?"
he growls later.

another protest,
another black body.
extra credit in the sixth grade
nearly failing English -
"write about Jim Crow" -
I lost myself
counting names:
oppression prefers continuity.

now,
far from home,
too far,
fifty dollars bail
still sounds too paltry
but there’s little left now.
twitter feeds are burning buildings
pepperspray and milk.
mouth dry, I watch,
I count the names again,
I hope tomorrow we won’t need
another protest.

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. :-)

We slump,
cracks in the cumin seed siding
outside the police station,
stale air suffocates the sun
as it sinks below
a creek and a trash heap

visa papers
clutched like the cloak of God,
a 100 rupee note crumbled in your jean pocket -
just in case.
is it a crime to expect the worst
in spite of order?

blazing dry heat smothers our lungs,
we resemble
shrunken palm leaves held only
by the stone above us.

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.

knuckles ache
peel back the page:
Aurelius, Seneca, Epictetus
cluck the tongue
boys outside throw jabs
over a cracked
cricket bat
a father frets over
investments and client work,
simple things.
I read on
wondering how so many words
committed to tranquility
could be attributed to so many men
when women
trained stoics since the womb
would pen epics -
if only they were not plucking stones from rice.

two years
she plunges into frigid
waters.
do you remember
what they used to call us?

loved, maybe,
but only by those
who misunderstand it.

she waits
unshaven, unwashed,
exhausted
from her past,
for her future.

snow never comes early down south
if luck kisses our brow maybe
an inch near the Epiphany
those days we huddle near the windows
wrapped in wool and hot cocoa
baklava bleeding honey, our eyes
nailed to the fences watching cardinals
red wings flapping like poinsettia petals
a warm breath on a chilled grey sky.

at every err
the rim of his voice ignites
a flame bickers at the edge of reason.

you see,
he casts blame
like the sun casts shadow,
each complaint
as complaint as a mother tongue.

could have, should have, would have
I toss the words away
into the tones of the sea,
and hope to pluck
resilience
from that same shore.

light like a razor blade
I squint
at a pointed shadow,
a thief, I thought,
but it was a cop.

his flashlight
stabs at stuffed animals
and plaid school skirt.
voice gruff
mother’s anxiety pools
in heated, clammy hands,
and when he leaves,
boots threatening,
she follows, rambling.

I wonder how
a man can mistake a child
for an adult.
but maybe,
he just liked rattling the cage
his badge built around us.

hands wring
cold sweat,
dry tongue runs
along teeth
each lap a question,
an anxiety
to tell you,
softly, my thoughts.
should lovers swim
such a wide chasm
of thought? finger tips
barely brush the abyss
but then I think
about the prophet
palms clammy
feverish reciting
each word of his explanation
wondering if even his wife
would think him mad.
perhaps stressed divides
can still be bridges.

cheap matches
it took three trips
striking those brittle necks
against the grate.
but when I finally lit
sandalwood incense,
that smoldering scent
calmed my jittery soul,
aching for reprieve
from longing.

what have you done?
inhibitions and doubts
smell like spoilt auflauf
and the day after summer.
your words are advertisements
for another conversation,
but I am not ready.

German:
was hast du gemacht?
die hemmungen und zweifel
riechen wie verderbenes auflauf
und am tag nach der sommer.
deinen wörter sind werbung
für ein andere unterhaltung,
aber ich bin nicht bereit.

steel plates warped
bend with the burden of
dust,
I keep washing
skin wrinkles
weeps
still I scrub
until the plate breaks
the silver scar
lined with blood.
I throw it away,
unwrap a new one
knowing that tomorrow
more dust will come.

I dreamt of draupadi,
birthed by fire
foot on black coals
smoldering
face smothered
soot
an offering vengeance -
mocked, name soiled
a scapegoat for war
because of a purpose
dictated by her father,
for laughter imaged from her lips
a blame only a man or five,
a few producers, even,
can shift to a woman.

overcast
you sit
**** on mango skin
the juice on your chin
drips on
basil leaves,
your hands already wet
before the rain
we watch the yellow mountains
spring back to life
verdant, almost emerald
green foliage tender at the end of summer,
nourished by the dead roots
beneath softened soil.

my soles are copper nearly
black, pudgy and blistering
heels cracked from heat
and hateful words,
my hands aren’t much better.
I soak them with epsom salts and tears
some nights I ask the sky,
why have you given me empathy -
what can I do with it
in a country soaked in blood?

wind blistered water
stars collapse into redwood
love the outer ring

against the moon rays
we drank rose milk,
burned the petals beside
sandalwood and benzoin.
we wondered
how anything could be
as magnificent as this moment?

I plucked rangoon creepers
they did not slip through my
fingers into dust
like the crepe myrtles. at your feet
I laid bengal trumpets and
lavender; pink oleander,
between your toes.
smoldering agarbatti
wafted over your eyes
everything cedar smoke and fire -
no burnt offering
could smell as sweet.

directionally challenged
athens is the only city
her feet knows,
she wanders down alleyways
undiscovered
but familiar
and sits beneath an orange tree.
she takes one plump
sunset shaded fruit,
peels back thick skin,
juice gushes down her arm.
yet she smells cypress trees,
olive oil offerings, and cinnamon.
she whispers prayer,
nimble fingers pressing
a golden owl.

some days
I spring to life at dawn
well-oiled and eager I
glide on tiles as if made
of sunflowers

and other
I drag my body
from the sheets
mumble poems,
sweet nothings dull crayons
with which I color the gray space.

how many rapes jokes does it take
to be funny?
he knows the answer is none.
no one had to tell Amnon
the sin in taking Tamar,
nor was Duryodhana confused
when he patted his thigh
mocking Draupadi,
nor Dusshasana dumb
when attempting to disrobe her.
yet you chant
men need to understand,
to read and watch
our unending torment
to understand evil.

a heap of rice
with small stones and salt
this red sari I am wearing
is a story
I cannot write.
So I am walking
with my bag of rice.
I give it to maa,
to you I give the salt
the stones I put between
today and tomorrow.

Bangla:

কত দেব?
এক গাদা ভাত
ছোট পাথর এবং নুন সঙ্গে
একটা লাল শাড়ি আমি পরা
এতা একটা গল্প
আমি লিখতে পারি না।
তখন হাটছি
ভাতের থলে সঙ্গে
আমি মা কে দিয়েছি
তোমাকে আমি নুন দিয়েছি
পাথর আমি রাখছি
আজ এবং আগামীকাল মাঝখানে।

For want of you,
I shall not shy away
from even the crumbs
on your fingertips
even a single speck of
dust
if it brushes against your tenderness
is as sweet as nectar
against my lips

I know my god,
I see him in your eyes
I feel his lips on my ear
Like rain on sand
I can’t forget his power,
A fire that does not burn
But it brings life to the ashes

I hide
beneath the rock
like a salamander
clings to streamside
stones
once I held one
against my thumb,
on my palm it squirmed
the universe in its veins
and without a word
I returned it home
to moss green and rain-guzzling
grass,
my three-year-old
white Nike’s flooded and cracked
mud seeping through the soles.

they say
great men found
enlightenment caves,
outside civilization.
unconvinced,
in my high rise I look out
over the land.
what wisdom
can one find eavesdropping
in dusky caverns?
what knowledge can be
gleaned outside the home,
which cannot be found within it?

The List:
carrot, eggplant, arbi,
capsicum, green peas -
press one for more options -
apples, new list apps
applesauce and ketchup
not Heinz but the cheaper one,
a new pressure cooker because the whistle doesn’t work
And with each tweak it tizzles out more,
theek nahi hai, yaar  
no matter how many times you take it in,
it’s just jugaad again,
a permanent temporary fix,
so we need a new one, stainless
steel and big, bara
to cook all of your dreams.
grand total rages against your wallet,
paper thin but it’s digital,
anyway,
your eyes glaze, blaze
as the bag boy, too tired, too hassled,
too underpaid squishes the eggs
beneath the cooker
the shells quake in your eardrums
the smell of something rotten
beneath all those discounts.

my body is a vault
steel bars ribs bared
lungs press against hot bone
your name a password
encrypted
on every vein and even
my muscles remember
every depression in your thumbprint
but even that isn’t enough
to unlock
what builds within me.

I wish I had
more memories of us
beaded like pearls
on a red string of fate
and circumstance,
more days
of spontaneous dusk walks,
skipping school to
create worlds far more beautiful
than this one,
more hours
nibbling on leftovers
or splurging on a mid-day meal
laughing as you drop
some hot sauce on your collar,
more minutes
in restive silence
lounging on plaid sofa
a book on your chest,
our hands holding each other
like we have all the time in the world.

From wood to wood
teak faces painted red
I wash your feet
with salt from heaven’s rim.

I observe
the eye of god
from our window I
witness
the carving of sorrow
it sprouts from Shiva’s
black hair, the Ganga
seeps from it like a serpent.

we go to the temple
complaints like cigarettes
in the stub box
smoke suffocates our hearts
so that we can offer
god only dead things.

she handles memories like a crime scene,
each shared photograph shows
a clue -
oil stains on armchairs, misplaced magazines
she’d mistake a sob of despair
for laughter,
love for pity.
every remembrance she mars with red ink,
as if to tell her side of a story
that never existed.

looking back
we were a myth
children,
playing marbles in the street,
speaking softly as if
words could build a marriage.

wind whines
haze rain
flings dishtowels
dupatta from
balconies.
150 kilometers
from the sea
I feel the chill,
nature bestows
a mini-monsoon,
relief
from summer’s sweltering
tirades.
but what destruction
could this storm, too, bring?

hi again darling,
this week I worked
so hard my hamstrings
are screeching from sitting,
and somehow I’ve learned to sleep
eyes wide open.

Honey I’m tired
but I don’t mind bringing home bacon.
after all, if you’re going to call me
lakshmi of the house,
I better find some gold
before you blow the conch.

this week I worked
through a sea of dead
names and
dead faces of friendly strangers
that kinda looked like you
and I toiled through another
pandemic-ridden seven days
even from home I’m wearing
a mask because
it’s too hard to see tragedy
and be working instead.

So on my break
I retweet
fleet,
press some of that goddess gold
into the digital donations,
because even a world away
even if you don’t see it,
there’s little wealth
in work.

father,
it has been over a decade
since my last confession;
in fact,
that crisp lenten day,
you in your purple,
I refused to come in,
giggling,
because I had committed nothing
worth an intermediary.

under lock and key,
anxious not to make trouble,
a natural people pleaser,
what could I child do but
laugh at sin?

today my prayers are mingled -
mangled,
a clutter of languages and deities:
my god is one but also many.
I’m not even Catholic anymore,
But for old time’s sake,
will you listen?

On the daily

yesterday she said:
you talk too much
please don’t tell
the truth,
your aspirations or your dreams
to anyone,
they just want gossip.

but -
today she says:
talk, why don’t you?
so rude to not even utter
a single syllable.
at least try to speak.

kilos of misunderstandings
burden my tongue
all her word taste of salt
that won’t dissolve,
but I wait,
expecting one day,
she’ll offer sweet wine.

so many yesterdays
sacrificed calendars,
penciled dates
and whimsies called
dreams

you couldn't eat right for days
tongue swollen, scabbed
red like Christmas lilies.
we drank whiskey, slowly
slowly
there's poison in love, somewhere
sneaking behind concern
disguised it rouses old wounds
dreams left unfulfilled,
when finally you could feast again,
we found our plates empty.

you smear haldi,
groping the fish
like a beggar grasping at coin.
each fleshy slice
similar to tree rings
smothered in salt
and cast into the plastic
tuberware casket
blood still red near the bone.
already you fantasize
about every delectable dish
mustard seed on your tongue,
meanwhile, I stare at the eyes,
not queasy
but uncomfortable,
scales clinging to my shoes.

you only love me in the silence I keep
I wet my tongue with white wine
quiet,
and when you slumber I speak
each syllable a liberation.

in this scorched, sun-baked season
we prayed for rain
and when it came
summer heat blazed
as if blooming,
polyester chaffed against
cotton, against skin sticky.
we filled our teacups with humidity
and decided the earth
knew itself better
than we.

yesterday I saw you.
today only your scent remains.
tomorrow, that too will vanish.

you said
the ache for home rumbles in your chest.
I tried to sooth it with words
in the absence of medicine
or a plane ticket.

when you left I moved,
became an immigrant
and I understood what it meant
to live without living.

I forgo the mall mehndi,
the astrologer on his maroon cushion,
order from the pani puri wala
a samosa and small talk -
for a moment
we breach liminality
but then I owe him thirty rupees
and I go alone,
sitting safe from summer heat
snack untouched.

I wait for the monsoon and hope
you will return for the mangoes,
perhaps then I can tell you
everything I meant to say
yesterday.

aging is forgetting
bitten pencils sharpened
to shavings,
traded my HB2 for a B6
admired charcoal black lines.
paint tubes plastered shut
words tumble out on
any old scrap,
memories dashed against
trash heaps
maybe, burnt in bonfires
all those joys, tragedies
cradled in the wind,
carried to someone
who might be young enough to remember.

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.

sun dries my hair
thick and sopping with
dahi, coconut oil,
on the terrace
I peer into the endlessness
of all four directions and
the summer haze
does not halt my lack of
hesitation, inhibition.
lokhi hands release the robe and
I embrace the morning sun.

our shadows mature
faster than us,
curve towards the light
edges sharp fringes of
empty pomegranate shells
and even when the night consumes them
they wait beside us.

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.