The dog makes it out alive
In the midst of a November morning, the sky was thinning and the second house on the street was interrupted by a dog’s incessant wails. It rained in the dark but the relentless sunlight soaked the damp courtyard. Mother makes mango croissants but your stomach is full from night’s misery. The desire to be seen had reached its zenith, for under the light of a bedside lamp, anyone can be a god, but not everyone can be a lover.
You prefer hands that hold when you want to eat your flesh, not the ones that wave goodbye when they see you pinching your veins. The days feel like weeks and your tragedy is older than you. You’ve named it toad, the ugly amphibian. It has turned you into a disbeliever and excellent listener, of lies, cock and bull stories. Someone’s lies have become your religious texts. Love thrives where faith lives but you are loveless and agnostic.
Your hands are bare, tongue knotted in grief, and ribs shrinking with sepia words that only ghosts can comprehend. The weight of regret reaches every corner of your skull and the heaviness of today dances at the bend of your wrists. You want to shake it off but it crawls up to your fingertips and writes, “I want. I want. I want”. But you are not lucky enough to hear, “I’ll give. I’ll give. I’ll give” in return.
The city of Rome
The truth is
I was following her
Skulking. Full of envy. Thinking
“There she is
Walking in beauty.
Again”
How does she do it
She could freeze an ocean
Or melt the mountains
But she chose to grow
Butterflies from her braid
My eyes wander around her
Fingers as she chops vegetables
With rhythm and precision
Feet stomping back and forth
From the counter to the stove
Keeping misery between her teeth
Teaching me how to peel an orange
Love is difficult in a marriage, she says
You fight like cats and dogs most nights
And forget about it at dawn
Truths will unravel themselves
You’ll slam doors at each other’s faces
The ceiling fan will slowly rotate above you
You’ll stare at it all night long drawing
comparisons between your marriage
and the inferno that burned
the city of Rome for six days
and seven nights
in marriage, you’re both the arsonist
and the body covered in kerosene
you’ll feel peace when their
footsteps fade from an earshot
one day, finally, you’ll want to slice
them open with a knife
there’s no returning from there, she says,
adding a spoonful of salt to the boiling pot.
The smell of ashes, dust, and regret
I can’t undo all the things I have done
You’re right
I’ve used your words against you
if I could, I’d go back and explain
why I can’t and won’t stop writing about
you
your ungodliness
your despicable being
I don’t know how to explain this need
That’s what we do
Turn dastardly things into
well-decorated
origami sentences
God, I know it must have bothered you
when it was 3am in the night and
you cried talking about your losses
then you woke up the next morning
and found a poem held up for
the world to read
I revealed too much
I should have apologized
but I sniggered at you for
not knowing art
you took my words and sewed them
on your skin
not the thousands of poems
not the pillow talks
but the trivial nitpicking
people like me always make something
out of nothing and never let things go
nothing ever dies for a poet
being a poet has ruined my life
Kids in love
(After Dan Whitlam)
If I had 7 lives, I’d marry you in 6
The other? I’d be a writer in that one too
I’d probably write something better than this
Perhaps the chronicles of my mother’s life
The ever growing longing will finally subside
And I’ll breathe
I’ll read till my eyes go blind
I’ll be tall, loquacious, and
rosebuds will rise from my footsteps
I’ll live by the beach
Eat persimmons for breakfast
Marry for love
Build a house full of books
Play Chess every night
Visit that famous bookstore in Paris
I’ll run to the edge of the sea with you
Float in your sweet nothings
Sink in your touch
Drown in your laughter
I’ll whisper philosophies between
Puffs of smoke and
Sips of lukewarm coffee
I’ll sleep listening to your apologies
And wake up to your forgiveness
All my poetry will exist because
I have you and not because I don’t
About the Poet:
Simra Sadaf, from Chennai, India, has pursued her Master’s in English Literature. With a Bachelor’s degree in Sociology, she has an abundant knowledge about the workings of a society which she incorporates in her writings. Literature drives her spirit and words churn her soul.