At my house in India, in the small colonial space,
I have a tree that grows these yellow flowers,
Small, dainty as vintage cinema,
Flowers that bloom when you sense morose air around yourself,
Flowers of affection,
Spreading like my mother’s loved arms,
with a hint of an Indian Goddess,
the tree of women’s womb.
A sharp eccentric scent,
Veins of fever inside the stem rummaging through the sky,
The flowers are offered to the gods at my home,
With a warm feeling of love
(a feeling that suspends like a hot prayer, the desired grain)
The tree absorbs my tears during nights,
ingesting a swollen pain of dark poem,
sinking through my body
shivering, looking at my postures, so vague and small.,
The tree takes it all and produces these flowers,
each morning
for me to rise again,
to pick up the fallen ones and to turn them into
a golden souvenir.
- The Yellow Tree - 20th February 2022
- A promise to keep us warm - 4th December 2020