The Noresoup Jukebox

when was the last time you held me, mary? like you meant it, like you loved me. all that you see now  is where i am compromised mary, are my wounds not yours to heal? forget the lousiness that brought us here, or all the hurt you bore from birth to now, what has veiled your affection, mary? as to beat me down, treat me foul. what do you pray for mary? who are your words meant to reach? for they read like testimonies, meant to preach rather than to reveal. God that you so lovingly praise, does He lead you, as well, in the way that you speak? when you rouse all my past doubts and you pick and scratch at the seams? my iniquities, now weapons against me, mary, mary,  it is thou that hast forsaken me. eyes who witnessed my suffering most, saw my fingers grow big, recalling when they were small. it is only you who knows so much of me. mary,  what sin did i commit? so treacherous was it, as to sever the cord  joining your womb to my mouth. forgive me, mary, i love you still...

soothed by resentment, this anger that doesn't dull down, oh, what a triumph to be a daughter! what a loss for the world, the potential in me,  had i been a man, how loved i would have been! sorrows, sorrows instead i have battles at home the fight to be known in all the worlds that i enter in here, out there, all the time, all places, and still, i must entertain meek girls do not survive.  sorrows, sorrows

conversations shallow as a creek you reach for my hand before you give me time to speak i wonder why you aren't curious about what i think but i betray myself and my mother grieves loving can be different from what you believe so i keep quiet and wait for my hour to leave and you will wonder what changed my mind so quickly slow to realise all you do,  is make me feel pretty. 

the nights in Delhi have grown vague barely a memory awful to think  only two months have passed and yet, forgotten so easily red night light suitcase, bedside table fridge that was my sun broken washing machine you, witness to all these fragile little things. perhaps forgotten healing witnessed only by strangers park full of them and only one girl  crying  in the middle curious neighbours busy streets trees that made pretty patterns relentless sun that shone on me you, thief of the joys of these fragile little things.

inspired by Maya Angelou's "Come, And Be My Baby" what to do with hands so full of time? holding a pen, writing, scribbling, still leaves the other so full. longing is a thing,  but yearning, a life. how to respond to love other than sarcastic jabs? you who desires so much of me i, waiting, for the eventual  dissipation. how to tell a non-reader in softer ways that leaves the heart wanting more? that i, woman, might succumb to these brave attempts  at sweet and tender.  perhaps, when the skin gets thicker and you can bear the jabs better. wait,  a while, for my speech to grow  from bitter to feather. why do i dance around only to regret when the music stops. will you have me if i come around,  stop the chasing, if i come around, without the nerves, and ask you to be my baby?

BØRNS - Bye-bye Darling the peppermint tea on the table piping hot and steaming not to be cooled down by the weather or the melancholy thundering. i write better than i speak you enjoy my writing most, you do. knotted thoughts unravelled on paper, and you scurry to find the hidden 'I love yous.' love is also a thing that comes so very, very long after it has died and very often, only after it no longer serves to be realised. i suppose August is for  very rude awakenings anger hushed by reason soft lips now parting to speak softer words you who saw so much of me, and i who gave so little.