AUTUMN
 
we are on the verge of autumn and there is a
constant shuffling; drawers are being open
and shut in every corner of the home.
it is either a search
for something missing or an attempt
to fit something in.
aren’t we all a little too desperate
about storage?
maybe it is because
we want to be able to remember
and in turn be remembered.
to hold and to be held.
my grandmother dislikes being photographed
because of the wrinkles on her face
but still smiles for the camera
when my grandpa says “at least
they will have this to remember us by.”
will this moment be another seasonal trinket?
maybe a hug will wash away
the tiredness, the weight
in the moment, the wait
in the moment.
 
 
SOUNDS OF HOME
 
a small hand drawn map of daily stretches:
yawns, yoga, wires of electrical appliances.
we all run on battery: the final sizzle
of a non-stick pan to indicate the exact degree
of burn for my burned toast,
the chatter of chai, the chatter over cups of chai,
the bickering that comes with
what kind of chai and who makes the chai.
Trained Onion Choppers Holding Back A Tear:
the heavy, hoarse texture of restraint
and how it snaps: a soft, single tear.
the mixer: chutney, or cold coffee, or empty churning
to drown out loud news channels in the drawing room.
odd interjections by Alexa: What can I help you with?
Many prayers to many gods
for many things by many people.
The ring of a phone: a riot, a remedy, a reason,
a conversation, context(less).
The ringing of a doorbell: (closer)(receding)
footsteps.
 
 
OCTOBER
 
It will be october soon.
a soft strangeness. an in-betweenness
resembling the fiber of a citrus fruit
stuck somewhere in my mouth.
the struggle to remain in motion: clockwork
sounds and unoiled limbs.
everything is an unsent postcard.
a friend said unwrittenness
is a phenomenon guaranteeing
complete, constant, clueless writing:
remarks about lovers in parks,
empty sound columns, a sky
exploding into october.
 
 
A SUNDAY:
 
some clothes are hung out to dry
and the curtain only slightly open.
so when there’s a sudden blast of wind
and something flutters, one can’t tell
if it’s the balcony ghost or a sock.
sweet lime for breakfast,
cut into eight pieces and put neatly on a plate.
it is a messy but delightful fruit.
yoga stretches, followed by
notes on poems, presentations, plants.
today, all movement seems like a hug
because we have all finally found time
to take care of ourselves.
 
 
 AT AN OUTDOOR CAFE
 
carrot cake and komorebi: light is a soft crumble
this afternoon. a missing to be measured in
syrupy drinks and lovers’ eyes.
it is true
that lovers only begin to leave
much longer after they’ve left.
it is true
that the texture of this cake
has changed from when I last came
here. when was I here last?
last I was here was when
I was here last and their in-house
carrot cake was different.