By: Megha Sood

 

Impossibility

 

My body gives slowly and surely

to this merciless time

a body so sure of itself

a malady of the sorts

like the mothball

losing itself to the air

 

Sometimes, I find love in things which are broken and lost

like that rotting chair on the porch

that broken swing

old skewed painting in my grandpa’s room

with its pixellated memory

still etched in me

pain is a colorless remembering

 

Some things can never be forgotten

the day I saw my friend pulled out like a

cinder block from devouring merciless river,

grief morphs your memories in a different way

imbued with life at one moment

and pale in another

life has its own color

 

I cried for weeks when my songbird died

my voice died along with her

but this death doesn’t move me at all.

eventually, the dead come alive

scorched earth turns green too

every time the rain falls

like an impossibility.

 

Difference

 

Silence tastes different to different mouths

silence is different from the tongue than to the soul

Can you tell the difference between them

dying and wilting of that willow?

They are both losing the effervescence of life

 

Silence exists between the brevity of truth

and sometimes in its absence

who knows what your tongue is holding back.

 

You were silent as you were hiding your scars

deep within your soul

and then there are some

who gain a perspective through it

 

Go ask a saint

a meditating monk,

with truth knotted in his crisscrossed legs

he will tell you the difference

what does an eternity of silence does to his soul

like the ruffled feather of a pigeon

they exist in all its shades.

 

It leaves a different taste in my soul than yours

sometimes it bears the burden of the truth

the sanity of it

your pulverized thoughts

hidden in your sullen mind

like a serrated knife,

slices the ends of darkness

it exists as an enlightenment

deeply seeded

in-depth of your

pristine soul.

 

Freedom – an interpretation

 

What does freedom mean to

me, a dandelion

as I continue my tryst with the

boastful wind

as it carries my identity on

it’s fleeting wings

I tried with all my might

to hold onto my identity

but the cruel and the mighty winds

uprooted and carried me

I’m carried by my need

and desire to be rooted again

I’m an immigrant in my own

godforsaken land

I reach with all my failing might

with my bits severed and falling

and rooting

clutching to the ground for its sustenance

See, I have to survive this

this atrocity called war and

peaceful settlement

and rise through it

find a new patch of soil

call itself my home

dig my roots deeper to survive

the cold transformation

of the ever-changing world

these boundaries and lines don’t make

sense to me

when my identity has been dragged

and has been redefined

and I end up getting the status of an

immigrant.

 

Bio: Megha Sood

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