Miscarrying on a 2 a.m. morning
i carry the ghost of my unborn child
in the attic of my ribs, a wild
mass of festering thirsty thorns
latching on my veins, sucking the bone
consuming poisoned grief while i sob
uncontrollably, i throw up in the toilet pot
how could i have brought sun rays
to a world where we wake up every day
to sepia skies, bodies in glass jars
rights to exist cracked, probing life on Mars.
how could i have lived with the guilt
i don’t bother reading dystopias anymore
Decay-dance
decay that comes with the farewell of summer
shrivels up my gums, injecting them with shivers
down my spine, susurrating about October sweaters
the sky knits with fatigue, inky fingers melting
rot has filled me up, exhumed fibres inside me
twisting and turning; after all, we are
in the Rotting 20s, I do not feel as if
I have just entered the cusp of my 20s
but as if my body has been decaying
since forever yellowing eyes and teeth,
needles in my bones and broken eyelashes
and pathetic excuses shadowy bloody knuckles
and blue-black wrists, unmooring
the unnamed monster of Frankenstein
what is decay if not a proof
that life existed once
what is decay if not a sentence
that life will continue
to live on
even after death,
even in death.
An Ungentle Aside
desensitised eyes that devour,
lick over bloody faces,
faces dissolved into a faceless mass,
a mass of moss, a site for your hate-
buried putrefied breaths,
headless yet still speaking
mouths that are dams to oceans
an ocean of grief unafforded
piteous is your reaction
when it should always have been
rageful,
when your lips should have always sung
the song of the mockingbird;
leaves are turning yellow
shrivelling like pale shadows
over the parched ground doing one last waltz
ablaze
aflame
we have failed as a society
in our disservice
in our silence
in our actions
in our inaction.
A letter when you get lonely
when times get bad,
when the skies turn grey,
when your hands get burnt,
when water spills over your notes,
when your hand shivers in cold,
when you feel an ache listening to sad songs
remember me, remember me, remember me
when the sun turns to a ripe mango,
its pulp leaking to skies,
when you listen to Hozier or Arijit Singh
when you read Wendy Cope or random trash one-liners,
when you peel oranges, when you cut onions,
when you watch a sad movie,
when you lick your birthday cake off your fingers,
when you bake strawberry pies,
when you hear the clamour of honks,
when you scribble something in your journal
when you warm your hands before a bonfire
do not forget to remember me
do not forget the face of the one kind person
who helped you at the counter,
(it regained your faith in kindness, in humanity just for a second didn't it?)
do not forget the touch of a strange lady
on the bus who helped you find your way,
do not forget the smile of a cute stranger
in the opposite metro coach,
do not forget all the time
you spent over your terrace during lockdowns:
do not forget to live life
do not forget to acknowledge your privileges
do not fail to show gratitude, voice your opinions
do not fail to remember that this world is highly unequal,
it thrives over disproportionate wealth,
it thrives over poverty,
it lives off the sadness and grief,
it lives by sewing lips and amputating hands
that dare to hold pens
that voice against spilling of blood,
asking for respect, not just as someone
of a certain identity but as humans first.
I hope,
(I can only hope can't I,
because that's what humans are good at,
never good at converting hope
to mobilised action,
but only hope, just hope)
no child goes to sleep empty stomach,
nobody freezes to death,
nobody refuses to give up their favourite thing
nobody is scared of living in their own body,
nobody wakes up to smog enwreathing their skies,
nobody is afraid to close their eyes
in case the bombs kill them in their sleep.
I hope their ears listen to the soft
crooning of Christmas songs and lullabies
instead of rattles of impending death
for the crime of being a human.
I hope they'll be in the embrace of family
instead of dismembered parts
of their siblings and parents.
The skies would glitter with stars,
a moment of stretched eternity
instead of airstrikes over empty spaces
that once were occupied
with homes and love and dreams
About the Poet:
Devika Aji is a postgraduate student pursuing literature at JNU. Mostly reticent, staring towards the skies but nothing can make her impassioned as much as talking about her favourite shows and books.