A two hundred and fifty year old bridge
gone. Destroyed in a winter’s afternoon,
by the torrent pouring off from the ridge,
the lake rising rapidly in the monsoon,
I dread the poem I shall one day write
To read to those who knew you, knew your heart,
The kindness of your soul.
Its rhymes are phantoms in my mind;
is not a period
but it’s funny how the homograph is used in this way—to shut things down, as a period (.) is the end of a sentence, the shut down of conversation, a period as it seems to be also does this too whenever a girl has one,
Some days I think I might have been a witch.
I have the temperament for one – brooding, meticulous,
able to whip up a potion as easily as winking
in the rusted cauldron that hangs over my firepit,
chattering in the background like an old housewife.
They’d come to my cottage (of course it would be a cottage)
and track mud all over my freshly scrubbed floors
and ask me to fix any number of ills.
I am eight years old when my father takes me on a ghost hunting tour
and I do not sleep for weeks afterwards.
My mind cannot shake the spectres on my dreams –
they have embedded themselves into the bricks that built the city
and pave the streets Continue reading
How do you store light the way everyone else only stores life
How have you trapped the heat of a thousand suns
When I can only hold on to the warmth of one
And how did you create this magic field
And when did you become my angelic shield
And how do you fend of the demons that I didn’t know I didn’t need
Did you know you do all that whilst the rest of us merely breathe
There is so much magic circling your palms
But I pray it’s only me who is captivated by your charm
And If you stay a while, I promise I’ll help you hide
It’s really fucking selfish, but it’s so that no one else finds out
That under that smile is the source of our light, and a secret gold mine.
by Taran Cheema