The refrigerator hums our story-
while we chase the strange thing
flapping in our ribs.
old crows walk over our eyes at night,
leaving footprints on the moist sands.
We see ourselves in nightmares-
our expressions unfurling
full-blown bubble gums-
we wake up with displaced faces,
deflated, creased and saliva-spilling-
becoming one-second strangers
before all the world reassembles in our heads.
Other days we bite into seasonal fruits-
a grape, a sugared papaya,
a pineapple that bites us back
and talk of the pending rent,
of the diminishing flour, phone bills,
backaches and broken doors-
waiting to be fixed, solved, restocked
only to break down again and again.
But for a brief moment,
we chew on the fruity sweetness
on the lies we plan to tell
on the truths we already know.
We grope in the tub of tapioca chips
sitting in our backyard facing the forests
put out comfortable roots together
a scratchy beard, two veined hands;
our inner diagrams bare-
our toes turn muddy
while our eyes grow wings
and fly backwards to an old summer.
our palms like insane spiders
clinging to folds, a chuckle emitting
from the salty madness in
our possessive limbs.
scars age slowly, sucks up all exhales.
unquenchable, the ancient cinders
stir in our ventricles;
we taste them imperceptibly-
and call it love.
- Jeena Mary Chacko (02.05.2014)
Published in Readleaf Poetry India