The globe has warmed itself into a boil.
People have died in a flood
that draped its saree into a tunnel.
A war somewhere in the West is wearing the sack cloth
of the wheat it drowned into its pit.
More than a 100 trans men have decided to tackle beauty
by its tassels via a legal intervention.
A wisp of land rising in the far east
is asking for something that the stove in the kitchen
has been warming up my tea with: normalcy.
A woman realized a few days ago
that she shouldn’t have burnt bridges
with her family: The husband hadn’t reciprocated—
not even after a C-section of twins.
A shell remains of what Mother was
in the 1980s. The skeleton she hung
in her closet tore up all her lesson plans
and revelled in being the backbencher.
He left two years ago and took
her identity along as well: It’s six feet
below the place where she praises the One
who bound her to that very skeleton.
Meanwhile, I’ve been searching through
the pockmarks and wrinkles of acquaintances
for a friend I disassembled away four years ago.
And I still scrub my face
from my larynx and let it lie,
down to the tune of:
“Hi hi! I’m okay; how are you?”