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.