Moths

When we are unthinking moths,
Lives depend on certain shields,
That cover the dazzling flames,
Calling us from open fields

The paper or glass protects
Our anxious, wispy wings,
From the promises of fire
And other such man-made things.

Sometimes we breach through the light
And we, fluttering, burn;
Because you didn’t screen the glare
And we could never learn.

Okay

Everyday people ask
“How are you?”
And I say,
“I am okay.”
I mention my body.
No broken bones.
No Covid-19.
No cancer.
Intact.

The inside of my heart though,
I wonder if I can talk about it.
Myocardium.
It’s said to be the thickest.
It has to be.
It houses abstractions.
Raw, mind-numbing wounds:
The fear of a future.
The betrayal of promises.
The neglect of hope.
The presence of love.
The sounds of monsoon birds
Silenced by “it’s not you, it’s me”.
Sensitive, burning, bloody
Awe
Of those who move on.

That part –
That part is not okay.
Every breath serrates it.
Like ice on a chipped tooth.
Like wires under nails.

But I can’t say this.
So, everyday,
I say, I am okay.

Awake

When I was with you,
I didn’t want to sleep,
Because I was with you.
Now you have left me,
I don’t want to sleep,
Because I dream of you.