8/11/21

New | TSC | Poetry | Kitchensula | Zeenat Khan

 



 

 

Once in a while it happens—when

nobody is around these women

become boneless (bougainvillea)

octopus orbits odyssey and Oedipus

 Once in a while an octopus

         slithers down a drain pipe

       squeezing the body into sink-

hole to stretch into an ocean. how

 malleable active animals—are they

   engaging with their sur-rounding

     Once in a while they dream

        but for a few seconds

           the women of the house

               disappear and appear

                   in manholes where

                 shadows breathe and die

               they droop and gather in their

             hands wriggling above the kitchen floor  

           centipedes to stick them at the lips of lids

        where their eyelashes no longer flick. these

     women are women of trees of chimneys

   of hills and seas. These women

 have rough roots inside and beneath

that move and grow sometimes. Sometimes

 they just wait. leafless. bent. stained

  red cherries with blueberries. bellies--

    emissary and lapidary of eon. larynx

      infested with Aeolian storm. dried       

          lachrymal—history of

            the sea—these women—an arch

               -ipelago. In their desolate landscapes blossom all

                  -uvial fans. They have been living symbiotically                      

                         with sea anemones. with grazing flames and pans

                              they are capable of escaping stalactites

                                 and statistics. They have been

                                    carrying the Bermuda Triangle inside

                                       their eyes. They can easily wreak

                                           havoc. They can breezily hide and curl

                                              in the lair of ancient rocks. these women

                                                   have let themselves stand over the peak of

                                                      mountains have let themselves flow

                                                         with the rivers of volcanoes. their heart pulsates

                                                             a memory of the Big-

                                                                Bang. a lost souvenir. a tender

blackness. hanging halos                                                               

 and night lamps. these women, man-

  made satellites. these women, spontaneous

     rains, what is left behind aeroplanes. They—

        who have been surviving for centuries and eras

          holding their breaths from womb

             to tomb their bones—frozen

               milk and fetuses disappear

                  like withering chilblains their brains ach

                     -eron floating far from sane traffic

                        -jams. these women—surviving surviving

                           surviving—the ancient myths. They have been

                               paleolithic caves. They have been stirring tea out

                                 of mars and asteroids. They are the silence

                                    of things they met—voice of the omens

                                         oracles and riddles flapping wings of dragon

                                                             -flies. Listen! they're ordinary. very ordinary

                                                              things they know. they have

                                                              clocks in their fingers

                                                      ears and lungs. they return

                                                    tiptoeing the moment

                                                 somebody comes. no-

                                              body in the house rhapsodies

                                           who cleans utensils and kitchen

                                       trailing on the walls lichen who prepares

                                   the meals. these women leave

                              their aroma behind in the pressure

                          cooker. you find them hung

                     above your eyes--breathless

                under the dust—the night.      

                                                 Once in a while they sing

      their night-                      mare, lick their wounded wings. They--

                                         who have been leaking

ships tumble-                weeds of time rhyme: surviving. Surviving. SUR

                                                                                                  W       H Y              

W     

        I    

                N

                         G

*artwork via Wikimedia commons

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