Food for the thought

Stories are like food, the cook said to me once

while I waited for the answer she went on

if you put out the right ingredients you will end up with

a prefect result, meat, hunt and envy-

a start of a long tale

an ending that satisfies the masses

They are about to kill a poet

The headlines told me you swore
with a tongue not yours, with words
you were not aware you picked up

unknowingly, they will trial you
beat you like you were Christ
for speaking against Him, in a twisted mouth

they will put you up in a defense
against poesy, poetica, the art
not spoken, not understood

they will tell you to make a wish
on a dandelion, near the lake
behind the trees you will not be able to see

they will accuse the divine of
needing you more that the common
people. Those on high need those

lower to serve without speech
they told me they are about to kill
a poet for his words,

take out the light in the eye
make it a minaret for others
high enough to learn to speak

against time, against Him, me
or them, they are going to kill
a poet while the words won't be a defense.

Functional bun

tie your hair up, when it is filled with smoke
collected and calculated from the burnt day
then make it into a functional bun, useful
or useless, there for the times when all you need
is a way out.

United with my mother

There is an uneasiness that has settled itself in my stomach
and being female, as sex was selected at birth without doubt
or understanding I check for signs that narrate something else
I think of my mother without confession, without shame
of where my thought went, of how at four we start saying
that girls cannot ask, the men will give them the answers
later, not now, when you grow you will know
I learnt by myself, no secrets in shame
there is a belly-ache tonight that lingers beyond my attempts
at medicating a thing I cannot see, cannot change nor control
this is a shame, would be a beginning
I am half sick with a flu and all I can keep in my head is a sentence:
is this how mothers feel before birth, after desire?

Advice from a writer to a scared starter

Cut down all that does not relate to you
there is much excess to the way
the curves make meaning out of the combinations
you use, it will not be easy, the relentless repetition
of avoidance but do not be weary, those are rest on the margin

Start, just begin
it will flow, naturally
this and other things,
my dear.

Flirtations across the table

There are instances when the word beautiful
stops meaning what it wants to give in a short adjective
when the tongue buds to vocabulary better
than simple words, across the table from me
you tread lightly the space needed for your thoughts
to travel to my hand, tell me
all that's round is sturdier, stronger
than mere words.

Prayer

Hold the beads in your hand, repeat three times
what you hear in the bell's chime-
say the way to a better step
is by assuring today is sent off well

this is the child's prayer, mine
a basic recitation of old desires
new dreams, this is how I string words
for better worlds

pray for a country whole,
for people on a plane or on the ground
for safety and arrivals,
these are prayers that remind me that

there are no corners of the world
when it was made round for a set purpose
to be big, beyond me-
I recite this and that and repeat

At times when I am praying for the universe,
I forget myself