to count the number of bones
hanging through threads of ice
that number down and calling you out
for conditioning me to do so,
why do my hands not recognize
my body until my fingers don’t rattle
I tell everyone I want to be buried
instead of being burnt alive,
because I would in fact be alive
in my death. They say it doesn’t
satisfy our customs. The plain
beneath their feet turns into quicksand
on the exact day when I completed
half of my graduation, but mother
says we only let in Rudaalis,
and english songs are a big no no.
I manage to let out, “No Hard Feelings.”
You see, “I love you”
than “mujhe tumse pyaar hai.”
Everything we say attains
an indifference, and starts to lack
a vulnerability essential to communication,
every time we use our second tongue.
That reminds me of snakes,
perhaps their hisses are just an intermingling
of two languages placed upon the
two tips of their forked tongues;
And forked tongues remind me
of contronyms: BOLT always reminded you
of lightning, of running away
of fleeing from fire-dripping popsicles
on a June afternoon of your sixth year;
it only ever reminded me of my BOLTED door
on a July evening, a window shut tight.
GO was the sign board hung
to your door after the night
I cheated on you in your dream.
And I only ever knew one place to GO: crazy.
when I spilled coffee on my baby blue t-shirt
because my hands were shaking,
but the WEATHERING of those hands
You see, “I miss you”
than “I love you.” And I’m not sure
whether I would ever say either.
So please ask me to hold your hands
holding your hands is the toughest sign
to learn in the language whose characters
are tucked between every bone
I might just stop counting
the number of symbols it has.
