Minakhi Misra

The problems solved by friends with ease
Appear large, Atlassian loads
I cannot hold, or shrug, or throw.
In loneliness of solitude
I curse the guts of Hercules
Who tricked his labour on to me.

My friends are moving mountains there,
And here I lie so paralysed.
They, Hanumaan; I, Lakshmana.
Though both the instruments of God,
Though both in service of Divine,
For now, I’m hurt, and down, and lost.

And yet I am no Aurora,
No helpless Sleeping Beauty cursed.
No true love’s kiss I need to wake.
I have with me my salvation.
And only I can call it forth.
The only thing I need to do
Is raise my voice and ask for help.

And, say, they do not come to aid,
And, say, for all my cries of help
I only get Promethean pain –
Eviscerated every day –
I’d know my dream was worth it all.
For I have stolen from the Gods
The fire burning in my eyes.
No eagle, raven, owl, or crow
Can catch and tear a dancing light.

Awaiting at his trophy home,
His trophy wife, his trophy child,
His trophy dog on trophy leash,
Congratulated, welcomed him.

He kissed his wife, he kissed his child,
He kissed the collar on the dog,
And let them have the trophy cup
He picked up at the latest match.

He trusted them with everything
He did not mind dispensing with.

A year of monthly unpaid bills,
A month of weekly pouty drives,
A week of daily quarrel calls,
And, finally, a teak was chopped.
Their grandma’s kevlar canopy
Had, finally, a bullet hole.

I have to bridge the gap between
My rumoured health and tumoured strokes
To share with all the beauty of
The mojo in these chemo jokes.

I have to bridge the gap between
My daily needs and nightly knacks,
To stand the tailing heat behind
The comet in my income tax.

I have to bridge the gap between
The “Aah!” of myth and “Ain?” of facts
To wrap some meaning all around
The text inside my best extracts.

I have to bridge the gap between
My ripened being and peeling breath
To go with sweet aromas of
The God inside my mango death.

His freshly-ground Robusta’s still
Adept at open-sesaming
Forever tangling neural nets
Inside his muse’s fishing hole
He daily melts with caffeine drips
Escaping down the leaky mug
He’s stolen from Alzheimer’s desk.

Throughout my ceiling-staring night,
I heard on every washroom trip
A fellow-flusher up a floor.

It seemed they heard my gurgling chords
Erupting in the echo bowl
And rushed to join the denouement.

Perhaps, with every press, they meant
They’ve stared into my staring eyes
Through flooring tiles, concrete, and more.

Or, maybe they’re just as lost.
And look to me for fellowship.
Perhaps, tonight I’ll press their bell.

In scrolling through his poems past,
In every “I” and every “me”,
He recognised a flash-lit him
In set-squared poses, post-it smiles,
And Jenga wrinkles ’round the eyes,
Anticipating clicking sounds
From oily touches on a screen
His muses fumbled daily with.

His day begins with rings of tea
Encompassing some classifieds
In yestermorning’s local Times
Emancipated from his Dad,
Whose day begins with rings of tea
Upon retirement coaster gifts.

Reflected on the framing glass
Atop the flattering report
Commemorating lifetime’s worth
Of thankless teaching and research,
She sees the senior citizen
About to reap her pension fund
Beside the fuzzy photo of
The twenty-something who had paid
The premiums from her salary.

My hand’s inside an empty slot,
And all of me is out of tune.
My fears arise in monstrous size
Like Sandworms from a whirling Dune.

The extra Spice in take-out food
Has made a Thumper of my tum.
This washroom cubicle is out
Of water, paper for my bum.