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Simran Modhera Jun 2021
There's something unsettling
about this feeling of loving hopelessly.

My toes
are constantly ready to push off and
dive into a pool that's empty.
It holds no water or promise,
but I get up and jump
again and again.
This is what  reparable souls are made of
Magic, drunken thoughts, and bravery all wrapped in delicate skin.

My mother has warned me
of this feeling before.
and how it ends in tissues and stitches.
But I call her and urge her indiscretion
to my father and her emotions.

I crave the feeling of feeling stuck in your gut,
where your body aches but it’s
wrapped in silk sheets.
that consume my mind wholly, constantly, agonizing and yet
I stand on the diving board
ready to crash again.
Simran Modhera Mar 2021
Cigarettes and coffee and you.

If I had to name three things I couldn't live without,
I guess those would be the things. But it’s not an addiction,
per say. I only like cigarettes when your callused fingers
offer them to me,
your wordless expression showing concern and contentess.
I blow away our pain and worries and pass it on for later,
thinking I’ll make some coffee again today.
For both of us like I usually do.
Coconut milk in yours and creamer in mine, right?

My toes are suddenly cold
I dip them in these tender aqua waters,
juxtaposing itself with the Tampa humidity
that laces my cup. I can't tell if
you resting your arms around my waist
brings a fire within me
or if it gives me chills.
I start swaying to some synonymous tune
that happens to play in both of our heads at this moment,
even though the only music is
the wind whistling
through the shells and stems of the palm leaves.

My lips are, coffee and cigarette and you stained.
The painful heat always disrupts this heavenly time for us.

So we’ll meet here, same time tomorrow.
I wouldn't want to live without it.
Simran Modhera Mar 2021
I saunter parallel to these pews,
dragging my fraying fingers along the tops.
Reaching for a wooden comfort, but
instead I’m pricked.
I shake the splinter and splutter the blood off.
Wearing my head high, I finish my descent
up the holy steps.
My mother stands,
looking past me and out the stained window,
letting it strike her into a silhouette.
The priest exclaims
New Beginnings!
My mother
matches his declaration two seconds too late.
My dad nods his head,
the final vote of the jury locked in.

With guilt and god on my side,
I take the holy plunge.
My head falls in,
I’m aching for a numinous experience,
only to suffocate from the darkness
that comes with this reality
I will breathe into.
My head may be under the aquatic illusion of renewal
but my feet stay planted on the
fractured  ground.

I am forced to look past the daze of illusion.
Because in the light
I can clearly see the greys left in our destruction.
I look back and my finger has bled
all over the back of this dress.
New Beginnings!
I exclaim,
with a red stain grained into my backside,
but an empty canvas in the front.

With my hair slicked back I hear a
You look just like your mother,
And maybe I do
hold her eyes
but I can see
what she can not.
The graying dreams that my parents are dis alluded to.
Their skeletons in the attic or the
boxes of dresses in the basement,
even though today I wear one.
I will look at the destruction created behind us
and not walk with them.

Because in this holy light
her eyes bask and only look
chocolate at its best.
And in this dim shadow
mine shine like amber honey.
This poem is dedicated the Maya ****** and her work "christening dresses".
Simran Modhera Mar 2021
Our love was crafted from heavenly bodies.
Tow trucks, skyscrapers, and chicken farms separated us.
But destiny, fate, and god came together
And gave these three damsels a gift.
Wrapped in blonde bows,
And dry throaty laughs.
We are one of the greatest platonic affairs.

All of us were given to Hades from our mothers;
Their tears fell on the maps they gave us.

As the gods weep, we laugh
At how we found each other in the mess that surrounds us.
All has aligned.
Nothing is perfect.
But nothing truly beautiful
Was born from perfection.
We are our sweaty foreheads,
Large appetites,
Thirst for a knowing,
And a hunger for a longing.
We are a connection
Conceived from something holy and numinous.
This poem was heavily influenced by the poem ‘Platonic Affair” by Orion Carloto, one of my favorite modern poets. Throughout these past few months I was very concerned with the idea of love and how other people showed their love to me. This poem was written to me, from me about the love that lives within my own home. This poem is about my absolute best friends, and how they show me consistent love and friendship regardless of the circumstances that pull us apart (pandemic, family matters, college ending, etc). I’ve looked so far and wide to find a fulfilling love, but one of the greatest love stories was right in front of me.
Simran Modhera May 2020
What she really wanted was
To know where he layed
What type of gown
Her prince charming chose to sleep in,
Was where he lived a house or a home?
Was he surrounded by the warmth of the sun and the giving gift of tenured trees?
Or was he besaught by the warmth and given the the gift of soundless snow?
Was he stomach stuffed on warm thanksgiving dinners?
Did his laugh spread around his home, infecting his kindred
Was he the prince of his palace
Finding himself a safe place to triumph but also fall weak?
Was he too tired or stubborn for mama’s kisses because of football practice?
Or was it the growing age of a boy, ripening for his new love?
Did he hang a banner of his college above his bed?
And change it out for a cap and gown?
Did he sleep with disaster?
Or did he pride in the comfort of geniuosity?
Did he lay his head on his pillow at night
And wonder these things about me too?
Simran Modhera May 2020
Even Aphrodite is an object to you?
A goddess that lays ahead of us all
In marble out of the hands of hundreds of men
by the thousands of women and children
Why do you perceive beauty in a frail eye
or a possession of your own
And yet the “private parts” of hers
were carved out of holy marble
for the male gaze to seek and consume
Because no beauty and lust came without the loss of innocence
Never mind the power she held
You still stripped her down
And looked

And made a mockery of women.
Simran Modhera May 2020
Before the sweat is the thought
Limbs crying in the hot aching sun
My skin’s pleading with me
Droplets form in my hairline
Intermingling with the stubby brow hair
Some of them hitting my legs,
Not letting them disrupt their rhythmic motion
Left right left right faster faster right left right fast-
My lungs feel deepened. The air
Feels like I can finally breathe.
The world around me spins
And my legs ache but I can finally breathe so I’ll keep running right?

Before the cough is the thought
Should I even inhale this air
How will it deepen the breath I take, and what if I
Get addicted? The sunburst that happens at the edge of my fingertips,
The proper pressed pale paper laughing back at me
Taking away future breaths but easing the current ones
My lungs feel depened. The air
Feels like I can finally breathe.
The world around me relaxes
And my lungs are filled with smoke but I can finally breathe so I’ll keep smoking right?

— The End —