I’m holding a chicken

heartbeat thudding in my hands

under endless cloths of white

November’s balm creeping down my back

to the tail end of 9-and-a-half

my memory incubator-ripe

when we cremated the papier mâché

because it was too hideous

and now we are enlightened

about the devastating things

like the tooth fairy’s handwriting,

the brush of the word tit

used in a serious way,

when Daddy said the internet said that

a teepee can be made to inhabit approximately five hens

if constructed out of seven bamboo sticks, rope and netting

well it turns out that Lowest Prices really are

Just The Beginning.

whereas the airport is the end point

a terminal of all histories

and expenses are silent

rattling behind us in little rectangles

as we brought elsewhere to home

the hallway peppered by that

black and brown sequined scent

mixed with Johnson’s Baby Oil

and subcontinental mothballs

it is possible to celebrate and grieve in one day

but it is not possible to celebrate your grief

and vice versa

both the soft body and strong hand coexist

like mud slotted between couch crevices

and fate will play out in sepia tones

my grandmother

watching her son in the backyard,

a man with a thin fire in his hand

tipping God’s Name out of his mouth

and onto the dandelions

the backs of his arms

glowing maroon in the sun

like the first cherries

she knew how to eat

despite never having them before

spitting the pips out bone-clean

no sinew, no reddened gum

just pure unbridled grace

some would call it diabolical

all of us sitting at lunch-dinner

tucking into murgir mangsho and bhaat

like there was no tomorrow

But she was old anyway. They were all old.

swallowing that chicken’s heart was a statement then

not a mistake

the soft concrete raging inside my organs

is an outcry

beating against my spine

like a bruised orange