Summer Farm Crew
This poem is for the Uncle-ji who has a
laugh that booms across the fields and transports you elsewhere For the
Auntie-ji with the round belly who makes the best sooji prasad and
brings it in a tiffin to share For the Uncle-ji who laments about no longer being
a zamindar in this new land while Auntie-ji worries about the rising
price of cane sugar For the Uncle-ji who sends money to the Khalistan movement
in the hopes that one day there will be a homeland for his kin his people
himself For the elderly Auntie-ji with new dentures who offers wide smiles
while she works slowly so very slowly For the Auntie-ji who brings jalebi
when it’s lohri and there’s finally a reason to celebrate even though
you’re all so tired For the Uncle-ji who is the Big Boss who promises you a Bic
Mac if you keep working that day long past dusk For the Auntie-ji who lets you
sleep over at her house so you can escape the dark for at least one night For
the Auntie-ji who grows tea roses For the Uncle-ji who gives you a smile and a
box of fresh peaches one day for no reason
Ode to Bohemian Waxwing
I, in self-imposed exile,
confined in glass cage.
You, perched to peer
with bold black eye stripe,
my little bandit bird.
I, marvel at flight,
freedom of wings and feathers.
You, visit each day,
become my sleeping neighbour
each threadbare night.
I, learn your pinched beak,
soft curve of your chest.
You, hide a crest
at the back of your head,
wings spread in laddered pattern.
I, feed on shadow thoughts
in the absence of conversation.
You, my only confidante for miles,
feast on late summer fruit,
on wide-spaced silence.
Our, desires both feral.
Yours, contained in nest,
Mine, gently tucked
into duck down duvet gifted
by your distant relatives.
BIPOCular
to be BIPOCular
is to be three shades darker
than anyone else
in the room
four in the
summer
to not celebrate
that upcoming holiday
to not decorate
your office/cubicle/desk
in red, green and
gold
to show up at the
potluck with a tray of food
that needs an
explanation
to know the taste
of many,
many spices and
herbs
to take years to
accept your hair
just the way it
is
to lament frosted
lipstick
to have music
buried in your soul
and the taste of
jasmine on your lips.
