LONGING
How can Kashmir be a hydrogen conspiracy?
the passiveness, the aloofness—the longitude
they search for their wriggled breathing
abandoned history, stooped pride in city squares
what is the DNA of their guillotined blood—
Dalits
they preserve solitariness in a ledge—Dalits
they store pain in their barns—Dalits
and then the masses of the holy land pray
together for the ship of Noah
in broad day light their blood splashes
they let their breath drink vinegar, they are Dalits.
The sky hugs the monsoon’s acronyms
again their doubt takes a sphygmomanometer
their yearning checks the pulses
lately whom they trust
their love becomes a chronic pain
last night all the stars fell off the sky
the moon became an orphan
as to identify with them at least once.
THE CANVAS
It was a kaleidoscopic pain entrapped by low-pressure
a wild ecstasy swam like sword fishes
all your promises looked rickety
heaven was a red apple, you might have misspelled quite often
you’re least bothered what my ambiguity was
amidst the good fortune
I was wrapped finely by methane puerility.
History is the most misunderstood hypothesis
hopelessness is like what you asked
and that might be a quirky canvas
I veered like a Jew to translate my genealogy, why?
Canaan was the sweetness of a reality you trusted
pastors had taught on hope in Sunday school
each time as I chased the heaven in a parachute
your verginity was in peril
I never tried to convince my frustration
how could the fire in the flesh be heavenly?
