Hey, how was your day?
(do you still hate me?)

It was okay.
(yes I am still mad)

Anything interesting?
(what can I do to get you to forgive me?)

Nope.
(Not  a single thing.)

Words not said:
I love you,
I can't be mad at you,
I'm sorry.

To the author,

Forgive me,
I have loved too deeply
the shadows of your type
I've stolen your creation
Locked it away in a tower
Thrown away the key
Incinerated all ties to you
Starved, it died.

Love,
The Reader

Mina Mina she declares
Life is hopeful
Pink and red.
She instructs me to wash
my hands and listen
to my parrot
She is feminine power
fearless leader

Mina Mina she lies
of no use know
what does she know
of wife beatings? Of
Dumpster scavengers? Of
rationing food? Of
Children in whom no one
Believe?

Mina Mina she is dead.

"You're going to hear me mooooo"
sings the Cow.

"Oh shut up,"
interrupts the Fox,
Of the late viral video hit,
from the next cubicle over.

"I'm sorry, but
you should go work somewhere else.
Somewhere for
lesser animals,"
Lion adds.

So the Cow left,
relegated to laughing
and the abundant sale
of her breast milk.

She never sang
again

I guess I shouldn't be listening to
a spot against the sky's colossal gloom
And land deflated in the evolutionary
past we go
It aimed at windows' frosted panes
this is what it studies in romances
And does anyone know that
the species invents symbols
To the contest otherwise they'll
how oftentimes the day
Has left.

I am from a rooftop garden
That smell like fresh guavas
And hard, wired fences
Behind which lies a foggy skyline
A dreaming city

I am from a small, brown-red backyard shed
Tucked between rural green fields
Where two little girls defended the world from evil by
Laughing and swinging wildly on a rusted, fluorescent swing set

I am from a row of townhouses
Where no matter how late the return
Warm lights inside glow
Beckoning  

I am from strong rocks
Against which foamy, icy waves crash
Leaving behind grass
Soft to touch  
And hard to uproot

I am from eating overdone fried chicken
From short-lived patience
From a voicemail
That will always say
From Lucy, Tulu and Samah

From don’t eat that, it’s for the guests
And if you have to do it, do it, but I don’t want to hear about it.  

From too many whys
And not enough faith

I am from Dhaka, Bangladesh
From jostling crowds and hearing a million voices outside

I am from Limerick, Ireland.
From rustic houses and quaint parishes

I am from Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From suburbia and inane boredom

From the college-genius who crashed weddings on weekends,
The woman who is still unimpressed by sushi in Japan

I am from feeling sad if you do
But wanting to make you laugh anyway

We are the ones
who sit behind
clouds and mist
Fallen
Left
Trodden.

It's our skin, you explain,
it remembers every touch,
glance, action and dance

We are etched on
by our actions.

A tapestry of life
Illuminated on us.