Fire and Ashes

As I think of you

 

let me be non-existent.

Then there would be no one.

No me,

no you,

nothing.

 

Let me be dead.

Away from all this.

Rice, meat, nini.

From my Manjari,

my mother,

my Para.

 

But it is too late

to crawl into the womb,

refuse to breathe,

to eat,

to live.

It is too late now

to say no

to all this.

 

I tonight feel

that I must shriek

so the whole earth shivers,

so you tremble and scream

in pity.

But that, I suppose,

would be disturbing

to you, me, and the neighbors.

 

I tonight feel

that I must smash my skull

upon cemented brick,

let skin and bone fragments fly

and blood drip.

But that, I suppose,

would seem silly

to you, me, and the doctors.

 

I smile,

at the joy in being with you.

And feel hatred too

when you tell me to become mature,

keep silent,

leave you in peace.

 

I am glad

that sometimes

you are such a child

with clear eyes,

tear stained face.

 

Your childishness

makes up for the times

when I wish that I had never been,

that I had never seen

anything. You, this world,

its lusts, my lusts, limitations.

 

Tonight,

it would be better

that I had not words

that you could hear,

that you could say to,

“You can never be silent,

can you?”

 

Tonight,

it would be better

that a landslide of the mind

would take these bubbling,

frothing words away

from my mind.

Making me sterile

of sayings, ideas, jokes,

anger, communication.

 

In my dumbness,

in my enforced wordlessness,

you could forever

hold me in your arms,

your eyes, and heart.

But, then, my silence

would tire you

as easily

as my words.

As easily

as this poetry I write.

 

On your birthday,

I give nothing

but ask that you come to me.

Forgive me.

Touch me.

Stay with me.

 

Calm my fears,

bring out my laughter,

tell me

that you wish me alive

more than anything else.

That you wish me to exist

for you alone.

 

On your birthday,

I cannot promise you

this universe or heroism,

Heaven or Hell.

Or the many better things

that you deserve.

 

 

Well, how about this?

I’ll hide my feelings.

 

But the cat is out of the bag,

it’s gone. I let it come out

and play with you.

My feelings curl up in your lap.

They scratch your arms

when you tease them,

or softly stroke them.

You pick out the fleas

roaming about in the fur

and kill them.

 

I with my bag,

somewhat sagging

with its mold, cat shit, and stink,

look upon you and hope

that despite having others

to occupy you

you will still love me,

emptiness, mold, and all.

 

As these lines run long,

you may want to say

“Stop it!”

That you do not feel up to

reading these thoughts.

That you want to be alone.

But to leave you alone,

for me, is to be alone myself.

To leave you alone,

for me, is to take

my stinky cat bag,

enter it,

and roll up in its corner.

 

Meanwhile, outside,

you sparkle in the light-filled day.

The brilliant rays dance

to the rhythm of bird-song

and the colors

of freshly fragrant soil wetted by rain.

Your joy is as bright

as blood.

 

Inside that bag,

in my nightmares,

I hear your footsteps walking past me,

without bothering to let me out.

Always they pass by slapping against soil

slowly heading away from me

to join a babble of other footsteps

that are running, tapping, dancing

beyond my horizon.

 

Inside that bag,

I, too,

shuffle and scrape my feet upon the sacking

in case you should want to hear

my own weak music.

 

Tonight,

I want more

than sharing, or giving.

I want you to say

my words never tire you

(even though they wear you out),

I want you to say

my company is not unpleasant

(though there are limits),

I want you to say

you want me forever

(you cannot really say that,

can you?).

 

So here we are

at the edge of nothing,

standing upon nothing.

And after all these words,

since you are not here

to comfort me,

my depression must last.

I must bring this jacket of yours

up to my face

and try to smell you

even though you just washed it.

 

I imagine your fingers upon my cheeks,

and hope that I do not,

in my foolish angers,

make you cry.

I know I do,

even now I can feel

the pain in your eyes.

 

You take that pen

to write to your twin

the words that you can never tell me.

You write to her the feelings

that hide in you,

and thoughts

that with such care

you stop me from catching.

 

On this day that you were born,

I present you

with weaknesses that are mine:

angers, frustrations, depressions,

my fears and my cowardliness.

I take joy that you are here,

the way you are.

With your clear eyes and laughter,

with your childishness and tantrums,

with your sadness and wisdom.