Mother says not to make it political
why don’t you write like Neruda whom I read
in my youth and loved
and believed in love
through him mom neruda was a rapist
and this poetry
writes me, really.
Really who has the luxury anymore, of
believing in love, or the audacity,
when the earth is burning? And
everyone is blaming
the fire on the infidels. if only, we burnt
away the infidels. It seems otherness
sells, and so does delusion, and all the good
people of this land think the way out of the fire
is by burning those people.
Hence, it must be so. If you think about it,
it’s a masterstroke
really; to make everyone feel unindian
ungodly unworthy of birth or land.
To unbelong one from oneself with a chasm so deep
so as to dissect them –
unless they pick a sword
and slit, instead, those people that dare
to live and look different
or love different or god forbid,
pray different. Mother, I swear,
I sat down to write about a love I felt once
which was so true, but how could it remain apolitical
when truth is revolt. So tonight, I can write
the saddest lines – I am no longer
in recognition or belonging of this land
of Azad. or this faith. and when
all of us are burning together, and our arms
carry saffron embers over etchings of those people,
we will go to our respective heavens
or angels or rebirths,
and shout soundlessly into endless skies
just how good we were.
