Dreams, Diaries of Loss

That is what they are

always the remembering

the thinking in space

but here you probably have something

I mean the day’s done dead and all that

still, the moon comes to weep on your shoulder

you know this gives comfort

this remembering

picking up your umbrella ready to leave in the rain

you know these tears you cannot weep are not yours

drink a glass of water

pick up your umbrella and go into the rain

the road the ride everything you take with you in the backseat of the autorickshaw

going into the night that melts like ink in these streets

in your mind

is the way things work

this giving away that you know you live for

the gathering the going.

 

The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).

Right Now

I would like to be

in that huge airy market.

I want to be there

under its high roof;

the fisherwomen cackling

with their customers

and big fish hung from iron hooks.

I want to hear the sound

of knife chops on

worn wood,

the floor wet and slippery,

and rivulets of blood flowing down the drains.

I want to see black plastic bags

exchanged for cash.

I want to be there,

I want to be back there right now

in Wadala market

and watch the cat walk towards me

with a fish-head in its jaws.