Monday, November 2, 2015


The kitchen will always be blue, 
the only open area here-
on your window, there will be blue paper-planes
still, shaken by the breeze that arrives 

unexpectedly. There are cats in your dreams 
cats on the walls, only the cheshire seems to be smiling
pointing to the direction of the old pathway in the wood
pinned to the wall

we eat cereal in Tupperware, 
you apologize for the hospitality 
as we look over the swans 
breeding new hatches for the season 

they will live here, over the pond we keep 
calling a lake, for lack of better words 
in second tongues- only we will fly
and call it a return

you and I are from other soil
we know it, little do people know
 the blessing of not eating 
out of Tupperware, of sleeping in self owned beds

there are times we borrow
grounds, kitchens
blue that will term us visitors 
each time we return

I will go back, you tell me
I am meant to be, I answer you
even when you don't ask anything
you don't need the questioning. 

The paper-planes are blue, 
this kitchen is blue 
we are here watching soft rain 
in a week we will be gone 
you to the directions of Matrbhumi
and I to my Watan
these are the motherlands 
that we get to ourselves
no Tupperwares or make-shift tongues.

Matrbhumi: Bengali for motherland.
Watan: Arabic for homeland. 

This poem is for my Bengali friend S. B. 

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