she wanted to be everything and nothing
roll universe in her palm
like a marble,
stars flame on her tongue
she spoke of a world
greater than this one
when she finally felt moon rock
cold hard basalt
heavy in her hands
she missed malleable soil stretched
into beds of clovers and daffodils,
craved the warmth of a star.

buy now get one
free, it’s
the deal of a
lifetime. learn
how you can earn
more
doing
less - be
like a billionare
just like Bezos
gulp down
that $100 coffee
because in this discounted
course bundle - now
just a dollar less than
a grand,
we’ll teach you to go
from crumbling off-brand tennis shoes,
dollar menus
to combo meals
and houses large enough
for twelve families.
remember, this is America
sign up now
so that even if you’re shot tomorrow,
at least you were productive today.

oil splattered
underfoot
dripping from the diya,
leaking slowly
cotton wick burns black
smoke wisp
bending
paints the ceiling
like kajal  
around your eyes.
my palms trace the wooden
alter,
a splinter punctures my thumb.

don’t wear anything
too long
too short,
cross your legs
try to look
ladylike -
smile, don’t fight
ask others what they need
or stay silent but
keep smiling.
walk softly, sway
gracefully, carry
a world your crown
cook ambitiously,
daily,
clean well
work comes after
the house and home,
so do hobbies -
sewing is a nice one,
when you find the time,
between peeling garlic and
scrubbing the basin,
won’t you fix that button
on your shirt?
your hair, too,
should be styled
even simply,
daily
for everyone.
don’t say you’re tired,
we all are tired,
but you’ve got to follow
every last rule.
and when you’re finished
take a picture and tag yourself
smiling,
folks want to know
you’re happy about it.

you ask for sweet lime
scent sour
I carve carefully
the seeds from the nectar
each white pip
tumbles on the floral saucer
as if dragon bones
divining your daily fortune.
I toss them to the crows,
palm-sized sparrows
so somewhere, perhaps
a tree will grow
and those limes
might actually be sweet.

I hung my apron to dry
let the wind carry it, cradling
cloth with branch claws and
dancing legs all the way to hell
and back, embroidering glory
in each stitched parsley leaf,
I unthreaded each with a brittle needle
used each thin thread to create
my own tapestry.

sleep tastes
like milk tea and cinnamon,
wind-cooled
for maybe fifteen minutes
drowning in sugar
so that your tongue is sweet and numb.

I used to wonder
why you slept so long
plaid covers up to your nose
pillow imprinted
with your crown.

now I know
that dawn often tastes bitter
and the remains of the day
sticky like pomegranate rot
when dusk arrives
like a cool drink in summer
I can finally slake
this thirst for something different.

I wanted to thank everyone for being so amazing. I started posting here nearly two months ago now, soon after I started writing a poem a day with the goal of 100 days. I completed my challenge earlier this week, and I couldn't have done it without being on here.  

Everyone's positive words have been really encouraging.

That's why I wanted to take a break from posting a poem and share this giveaway I'm hosting with you. I'm giving away 5 books - one large one of poetry and 4 of international short stories.

If it's your cup of tea, you can enter here:

http://kelseybanerjee.com/summer-giveaway-2020/

Thank you all again! Looking forward to posting poems again tomorrow. :-)

an obstacle
they said of the mountain
its white peak piercing
moonlit tapestry trembled
against the stone,
their complaints nothing but twigs
in feasting campfire.

when the monsoon came
she cursed. She had been asking
those folks in the co-op
twiddling their thumbs and licking
the edges of their rupee notes
from the maintenance bills,
she’d ask them
to repair the terrace aching
and wheezing with water
from the early drizzles but
the treasurer preferred a Kashmir scarf
and the chairman a new scooter,
secretary painted his living room and added twenty rupees
for a samosa for the loyal watchman
and so she slept beneath flickering lights
hoping the wires didn’t blaze up,
consuming her whole.

no one tells you
being an immigrant
is being a stallion
front hooves tied knotted
course rope
chaffing at your ankles
holed up in a greener pasture
gnawing at tender leaves
while watching
acres away
those you love
wild and free, wind
whistling against their cheeks,
a throbbing ache to be with them
but knowing you cannot.

you weren’t there
so I went on asking
cards questions
each word a plea
for something else
and in return
each image printed
in monochrome blue
offered an answer
you would have hated,
but each one
sour against my tongue
sounded more honest
than your praise.

if I stay, I miss the BBQ,
if I leave, I miss the mangoes.
There is no hope for
those of us trapped
between two worlds.

they repeated
that your story didn’t matter -
a mantra
they couldn’t calculate
the value of the sun.

the day you left
our water went, too
jugaad,
barren bore well,
too many bodies in one building,
I count excuses, listen
for spouts
faucet handles twisted
empty mouths
gape black.

even our filter-
empty
except for salt deposits
nibbling at the plastic.
it’ll take three days,
they said,
for it to be fixed.
a tanker will come.

lips dry, cracked
at the seams,
buckets half filled,
teal paint peeling
the water from the corner shop,
more bitter than Marah’s,
but
I had no power to make it sweet.

I asked your vanished shadow
for at least a little rain
and in the midst of summer,
I saw two clouds,
white pockets heavy
with rain
but they went to the mountains.

at dusk
a lone tanker
rusted red
crawled up our street
spilled
half its hold
on splintered pavement.
when it departs
a shallow spurt from the faucets
fill the flat with
gargles and whines,
a single drop
lands on my palm.

we tried to bury the dead
clawing at memories
hard as beet roots,
garnet colocasia,
rotting,
manicured nails in caked film,
dirt and violet water
whimper séance spells
at our ankles -

I tried to listen
but did not understand -

were we burying sorrow,
or digging it up?

she said:
don’t forget!
milk, oil, flowers
our offerings, our worship.
my hands are broken
but still you kiss each finger.
I remember
milk for kheer,
oil for the lamp,
flowers for Shiva.
to me these are nothing.
in your eyes the world sleeps
can I sleep in them, too?

Hindi:

वह कही:
मत भूलना!
दूध, तेल, फूल
हमारा प्रसाद, हमारी पूजा
मेरे हाथ टूट गए हैं
लेकिन अभी भी तुम एक एक उंगली चुंबन।
मुझे याद है
खीर के लिए दूध,
दीपक के लिए तेल,
शिव के लिए फूल।
मेरे लिए ये कुछ भी नहीं हैं।
तुम्हारी आँखों में दुनिया सो रही
मैं उन में सो सकते हैं भी ?


Bangla:

ও বলল:
ভুলে যাবেন না!
দুধ, তেল, ফুল
আমাদের নৈবেদ্য, আমাদের পূজা।
আমার হাত ভেঙে গেছে
তবুও আপনি প্রতিটি আঙুল চুমু।
মনে আছে
খিরের জন্য দুধ,
বাতি জন্য তেল,
শিবের জন্য ফুল।
আমার কাছে এগুলি কিছুই নয়।
তোমার চোখে পৃথিবী ঘুমায়
আমি কি তাদের মধ্যে ঘুমাতে পারি?