Published on Olive Skins

The Poetic Elixir

A day with an illness.

Earlier I wrote every day about almost everything
now I do not.
I wait for the paper to drain all the sorrow.
The filtered content then goes under the lens,
where I try to bake a muffin.

You do not write as long as you are happy.
I go to the well only when I am thirsty.
We read in the books about growth,
where cells occupy the space
left by separation of walls.
I search for a path within my blocked mind.
I do not write.

Read more of it here.

Grandmother’s Quarantine
My tongue is learning to spell a new word.
Quarantine.
It’s everywhere,
floating like a small bubble.
across the streets
it echoes in children’s voice
it is stuck in my grandmother’s throat
a sharp cry leaves her lips
inside we know,
it’s the end
but somehow we pretend it isn’t.

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