bhindi

'made bhindi bhaji,' i say.
'what?!' they say.
'you asked what i was doing,' 
'oh...have you heard?' they say.
'yes, sorry to hear...'
'are you okay?'
'should i not be?'
'no...no..i mean...you're alone...'
'...'
'you're okay, na?'
'...'

a dozen awkward phone calls later,
i activate the silent mode.

i truly dread them, these
calls from my contact list,
(clever of you to notice i did not say 'friends'),
when some celebrity dies by suicide.

i want to tell them,
i tried it and failed,
but that would mean
people showing up
unannounced,
full of concern.
don't. want. that.

i want to tell them
bhindi is my safe word
food that comforts
and they only have to worry
if i tell them it's a good time
to buy fab india whites.

they're horrified of course,
'you're so funny, m'

it's never funny, remember that
and it's not easy,
living with the monster 
that eats you from the inside,

but i laugh with them,
promise to meet them for coffee.
when their conscience is lighter,
and they're about to say, 'byeee'
i say, 'but damn, he stole my thunder'

what is poetry?

if you thought poetry is about
stepping into an ocean of stars,
then you probably think
poets are shiny, shimmering women
with long hair, tinkling in silver
and an air of a startled doe.
yes? then fuck you charlie.

poetry is written by fat ladies 

who secretly work for the c.i. a.

poetry is the hankering,
a denying yourself of cheesecake
it's bad for your heart.

poetry is about losing 
your temper, your hair,
your youth, your innocence,
your heart, your children.

poetry is love and pain
and loneliness, mixed
with hatred. it's vile and viscous.

and yes, it's about hesitation
you feel when standing
on the ledge made of quinoa
waiting to jump into an abyss
filled with fireflies. 

why i don't hug

you're nice and all,
but don't hug me.

some of you have nice
chests, and your hugs
could be a polite feel.

some of you have nice
muscles, like emoji
offering protective hugs.

some of you froth over
with very nice happiness,
laughter ending in hugs.

but please, don't hug me,
i've sealed in bubbles, 
memories of people who left me.

i use a glue called ache,
to keep it all inside,
so i worry, constantly.

should you in enthusiasm,
hug me, envelop me
in warmth, those bubbles 
might just pop, burst,
and let loose upon the world,
years of collected misery.

Being Helen

Come! Let's try this thing called love. 

We sort of heard 'Bas Ek Sanam Chaahiye',
And fell into marriage.
Everyone thought it was 'Aashiqui Ke Liye', 
Just that we didn't. Not really.

Kids happened like seasonal colds.
We took care of coughs, measles and PTA.

Your lust took you to conferences
(With the secretary)
And mine to tennis courts and the gardener.

We promised each other Laila-Majnu
But ended up shimmy shaking
In other people's arms.
You became Prem Chopra, I Helen.

Now the kids are gone,
And we don't have to pretend any more.
You still drink the godawful coffee,
And I take refuge in tea. 

You are shriveled in odd places,
I'm wrinkled in weird ones, 
Your knee tells you when the rains will come,
My asthma has turned weather forecaster too.

The only thing we both still love are sunsets.
So let us start from there, we'll watch sunsets.
With you on the upright sofa
Me on the planter's chair.

You'll drink the black brew, lots of sugar,
I will sip the amber, perhaps with a spot of milk
And maybe then we could put a new spin
On this thing called love.