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the fridge, my sun

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And so, the church barely remembered my name Though I was only gone a few weeks or so. Perhaps I should have made grander entrances. So that I may be remembered for my flair, If my name is meant to be unknown.  To be loved is to be remembered, So tragic was my easy transition to oblivion. Ah, well, What does it matter? Though I ruminated all the way home, When I reached my apartment --- all empty, dark, and cold, I opened my fridge and sat in the light, The fridge, my sun, Kinder as to cool the unforgiving heat, Finding refuge from the awful summer night. Was it my disposition? Should I have ignored the spiritual call? But the sun reminds me that I do exist,  And I did not have to worry after all. Rays blocked by shelves filled with loved things; Meat that my mother brought from home. Among the loveliest, 3 pairs of peaches, Rolling out the bottom shelves to break my fall. 
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a mystical happening

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Met my supervisor on a Monday - first bad decision; Dressed in Monday blues, my cotton dress soaks up the heat. Enter the dreadful cabin, twas the witching hour! I had no clue. Left the cabin to soak in the sun, Her scholars follow, They whisper to me, tell me to run. I do not listen - this stubborn whimsy; I believe there is something to learn even in the coldest corner of Delhi. Her cabin, calling to me, I sat myself before her - sorry to say, I was stunned. She made 3 people cry before the clock struck 12, Lucky was I to be the fourth one! And so I laughed a little,  Shook off my tears, she chuckled. I know I can do better; I needed the push. She smiles,  I leave,  I cry some more. Her scholar tells me, This is normal. It's happened to her before. Hugs me tight, offers relief, and then I cry some more. Hottest April in Delhi yet, they say. The city should worship me for my April showers. I did not take it to heart, Nor was I hurt, In fact, it made me want to do anythin...
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i'm still figuring things out

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Senhorinha - Rita Payés, Elisabeth Roma Sorry to go back on my words, I'm still figuring things out. I suppose I enjoy being alone; So long as I have people to wait on --- be gone a day or two, But coming back, to me, after a while. I suppose I do better with the wait than the solitude of ambiguity. I suppose I enjoy silence, so long as it is soon to be broken. By cheerful banter, stifled laughter, My mother singing in the kitchen. I suppose I do better with the laughter Than the music lonely in the background.  And if we are already supposing, I should also suppose that I might love someone later on, And it should break my heart now To succumb to the depths of marriage later. I suppose that kind of tenderness might find me, in time, and soften these rigid walls. I was so different, last April. But, I'm still figuring things out. 
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on an unsuspecting Thurday, last week of March

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Samm Henshaw - Hair Down Well, would you have it? All the things I did not have on my agenda. Woke up to violent screaming,  My neighbours' racist spectacle.  Left the window open to let the light in --- and the verbal debauchery.  I could use some unprecedented hatred as fuel. And my brain slept on campus,  Dread was the last thing I knew. Before I started, you know ---- to get my steps in,  Next thing I know, I flew! Bike  and a red light ---- that evidently mattered little,  Another case of hit and run,  So the biker left its flailing target and bid adieu! And I waved back!  To extend my clause of luck. I realised my injuries had all stuck to my right side. The side that means most to me --- Knocked up knees that had started to heal, Arms that had lost the charm of  First time flying off a scooty. So I went home to my flat, crying on the lift up Stopped on the wrong floor and had to look up ---  Ah, my bewitching landlord. Peered...
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this lucky, unlucky living

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Dearest reader, Here is politics --- we people of little power must toil and try to earn, What is bestowed like a gift, this lucky living. And, yes, we share the same God, So, grateful must we be for the little that we get and the plenty they receive --- this lucky, unlucky living. Sincerely, sincerely, with smiles and gunpowder, non-poet writing sad, limp, non-politics. 
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i fear there is a living much beyond this

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Mitski - Working for the Knife I fear there is a living much beyond this I fear I exist in places I do not know. A friend wrote to me, said he finds no peace --- the way we yearn for a thing we do not yet know.  Alas, the air has warmed Spring has so quickly come and gone. All before I could awaken That winter slumber, my seeds not yet sown. I fear there is a living made for a taller person, a better woman, and she flourishes in the avenues --- Atlantis of peoples' souls. And they tell me about her, eyes gleaming, that hopeful pearly gaze, Hand me her shoes, her gown, her coat, But I have not yet grown.
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it takes two to tango

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Melody Gardot - Um Beijo it takes two to tango, they say so, will you speak gently to me? if i spew fire, be water --- you know if i miss a step, you may go ahead and miss a step or two so then, i may correct you --- you know and you may keep your hands folded in prayer, whichever God lest in whimsy, they decide to roam --- you know keep up with the beat until I tire and lean, then your hands may do other things --- you know
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