Russian Dish
It is a Russian dish, they say. A plate of two diecious moons Rising on different waters. They reflected a common bond: The mushroom sauce that Goes with anything unmushroomy. One side was a pile of rice, Yellow fleshy seedlings, brown Chunky gravy for headtops. They mountained over like uneven Alps. They kissed the air, like good army boys And rose their spice to dance firely Within me. They spoke a foreign tongue, That deciphered itself in my mouth. The credibility lies somewhere my love, but try Finding a speck of truth in a death full of lies. It was painful to hear its story, The way it winces and rolls over to convince you. Being genuine is something special, sacred. It can’t be too hard. Just when my fork Scooped up a bite, the lambs started hooing. They were in juicy threes, each with A bone and a bit of marinated flesh. They smelled like grazed greenlands. It is something else with mint sauce But I hate it. Truthness lies somewhere In the nervous system of its body, That is bloodless and tender. They too, attempted To lull me with an anecdote, fallibly in its juices. The grain and meat are proud godfood with histories tailing like dreams. Whom should I consume and believe? They Withered and tempted me like a candystore does To bored children. It is too agonizing, I’ve become The middle woman. Two moons, jaundiced and stony Stared back boney, and sick. The overcrowded trash Had acquainted two odd friends that night.
15 - 22 Sept 2002 |
My Dear Friends Jordan Leon Kostka
Our friendship has taken on a new meaning Years have flown since we last exchanged stories, cried together and laughed What matters most is that we know whatever happens, we will always have each other All of you will always be my friends NILA, 1 May 2003 |
A Reason
Whatever may come I’ll accept it. There’s no use fighting Against anything pre-destined. Every word now rings in my ear, Rude and slurring. They echo repeatedly Like an important news. Maybe there is a reason for this. All this while, you were my rightness, My flawless god-like statue. But nobody is perfect and nothing is, And I’ve come to accept that thoroughly Because I simply have no other choice. The phone rings and I answer it just to hear Your heavily-panting lover hang up.
26 March 2003
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Kavya, June 2003 |