history.

harry campbell.jpg
artwork by Harry Campbell
I write to you
on a black sheet of paper.
I write hard
so it shreds the paper to bits,
 
and feels like running a knife
through the underside
of my belly
i can feel the cuts:
 
from all those years ago
when I am running on fields
of the same flower
mother left when she left home,
 
all those years ago
they fall but make no sound
i tremble again in the wind
with them
 
i can hear mother speak,
she whispers in the air,
‘What’s wrong, where have you been
who have you loved?”
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what i forget.

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In some part of my dream
he tells me,
I forget the most important things,
he writes:

A paper insignia.
To change every day.

Books in Hindi.
To always remember what ‘jan’ means,
both the life and the lover.

A tablecloth.
To lay when he comes
and cling on to, in moments of desperate intimacy.

Pictures of him.
For warmth.

artwork by Alfonso Casas

at the sea.

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A visit to the beach
can be a messy affair.
Sand in your super tight swim shorts
and men staring at your half naked body.
 
In some distance, a gigantic crab
wrestles some rocks
emerging slowly, little by little. that
I have proof of.
 
Wary of where I step
with the familiar in falling,
I spot a round stone
that feels soft in its core.
 
The oddest is the sea
half sure, half unsure
testing the land with tides
like a young little child.
 
takes a hundred steps back
for a single step forward.

Moving on.

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In your absence
the y(why?) becomes a question
of an adventure, i am not
quite sure about taking.
 
Mother once told me that i never
quite learnt the opposite of
urgency. Why i must wait
and not pluck raw fruits off
their branches?
 
You tell me that i can find comfort
in forgetting things. Even slowly.
Here out in the open, I smile
because I can pretend to be calm.
Trying to tell you how urgency
can be a being.
 
Hoping you’d learn the need
to teach me
the process of healing. and how to hold it
in my palm, and let it grow
taking its time to sweeten
like ripe fruits.
 
But before that, halt.
Teach me the meaning of full stops.
And most importantly
teach me all the reasons
you left.

Loop

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In pursuit
Of heaven I have found
the word, loop.
That is a repetition of an event
Again
And again
Until I forget how your lips
Forgot the utterance of my name

makes me think singularity
Is the scariest truth. Loop: a queer
Innovation. We pick and choose
From a lineup, until
It is enough

It makes my heart stutter
And go wild. Heaven.
It is a feeling and I’ll stay here
Until it’s enough

 

-artwork by Ninad Sree