Sibling Rivalry.

It must take incredible resolve to stay focused at the circus.  For some, chaos is the buzz and pestering of a simple fly.  It is a feat to stay afloat despite being deprived of a lifeboat.

With the self-restraint of saints, equipped with minimal complaint.  How does one bite their tongue through lifelong chronic pain, as their loved ones bellow over broken nails and migraines.

This kind of bravery seemed made for comic books and fairy tales; epics based on Viking Gods, or stories about sailors and sperm whales. Until that unforgettable day not too long ago, when I rubbed my eyes, in disbelief, as I watched my own sister effortlessly complete superhuman deeds.

There is nothing quite as loud as the silence that accompanies the truth; it echoes inside of us, before it blares like trumpets in a padded room and then blows off the roof.

I spent a lifetime believing confidence belonged to those who dared to shout.  Mistaken, now, as I admit my sister's silence did not stem from her self-doubt. Instead, it was her way of saving us from the fires we started in every single house.

Now, I burn from my own shame, for all the times I cursed her out, assumed she was my rival when she'd only been looking out.

For making false accusations to twisted sisters who laughed at me behind my back, and even to my face.  I cannot eat my acidic words, or ever remove those stains.  I can, however, commit to behaving the way a brother worthy of her should behave.

I beam, with pride now, as my vision is no longer clouded by my own delusion, or promises uttered by others only to be lost to the wind.  Grateful, more than ever, to have finally paid attention long enough to applaud an authentic femme fatale, who is also my best friend.

The fear of loss has made me quicker to count my blessings from above; the greatest of which, are her and our mother's unconditional love.  From sibling rivalry, to reverence, she is the one person I could never be without.  If it weren't for those pinches, I'd probably be six feet underground.

Shakti.

I stood there helplessly, drowning in defeat,
darkened by my inability to breathe life into
your rusted heart's resilient beat—
a symphony I memorized from the inside,

in forty weeks.

Incapable of returning you to the raven haired beauty of your prime, I bite my tongue until I'm numb, as if my lips have been sewn shut with twine.

You heal me when you hold me then transport me back in time, to the days of yesteryear, when I was still your innocent, little child.

I am haunted by the trauma when I will one day find, that I can no longer turn to you for comfort, or the reassurance of your smile.

I know I run but I am frightened, when I see you've become so frail.My mind refuses a reality where you are no longer my nightingale.

Your song lulled me into slumber, as you softly sang the world to sleep.

If only I had looked at you long enough to see,
that all you were ever doing was trying to love me.

There is no bond like that between a mother and her only son, even if he is less deserving of
her pride than he is of her scorn. 

Mamta.

Your strained voice
cries out to me, like the sage sitar.
It sings a sobering song
that transports me through sand.

Suddenly, a memory of your
loving care becomes so real.

I watch, awestruck,
as you took my tears
then weaved them into cloth.
Embroidered with golden silks
you pulled from the fabric
of your heart.

We never had much,
but your patience had me convinced
you were the palace in which we lived.

I exhale—only the warmth of love
and adoration escapes from my lungs;
in you, we have the stars.

Despite the struggle,
we only ever tasted the sweet saffron
you skillfully slipped into our souls.

Shalimar is in you;
my mother IS a Taj Mahal.
Her every breath's a nectar;
it is cardamom's caress.

I would reanimate a hundred thousand times
just to relive the splendour of her shadow;
it was the sunrise of my lifetime.

I would relive every sadness behind my eyes
just to breathe the soothing citrus-scented air
of her orange grove.

I have never come so close to saintliness,
and I can soundly say
my spirit has never been the same.

#BLACKLIVESMATTER

I feel my soul crying 
immediately behind my face,
the tears refuse to be released, 
they only press against 
the inside of my cheeks.

With heavy breath like 
there is a stone weighing 
down on my chest.
How am I to feel when they have 
waged war against innocence.

Retreating into myself for I am 
unsure of how I can help.
As futile as prayer or tossing 
coins into a wishing well.

Take my hand, the least I can 
do is comfort you.

Breaking down, I fall apart 
from hearing the news.

What can I do to assist 
my brothers and sisters,
when privilege reigns in this 
poorly built system of resistance.

No weapon formed against us 
was ever supposed to prosper.

Who am I to trust when 
I can't even have 
faith in the gospel.

Perhaps I am naive to continue 
carrying my dreams,
although they might as well 
be held in coffins.
Leaving me burdened as they 
strip me of my conscience.

The current state of affairs 
has left me feeling hopeless.

Has the whole world gone blind 
or have we just become desensitized?

Numb to the injustice 
that has become as natural 
as the clouds that stain 
the cliched, clear blue skies.

We need a revolution, 
or at least a resolution.

There is no humanity when 
hatred has left the world polluted.

How can we continue to feign 
ignorance to these circumstances?

Once, I learned that race was 
just a social construct 
and I almost believed it,
until I opened my eyes 
and saw all the inherent 
corruption that exists.

Fabricated to create 
a rift between us,
separating, segregating, 
sedating and now 
it cannot be reversed.

Perhaps focusing on all 
that we have in common,
instead of drawing lines 
designed by our differences
could bridge the distances
between us.

We shall overcome!  
There is power in numbers.

Shameful to think brutality 
is what it took to awaken 
the sleeping from their slumber.

Who can say what 
we might accomplish,
if we aspired to undo 
the centuries of brainwashing
until all of the hate is abolished.

When we bond together
ignoring their profiling
of races; we can heal
and free ourselves from 
oppression and its cages.

The Visit.

Silhouettes and photographs, 

through the graveyard, 

walking fast, 

Depression era screenplays, 

around the corner 

fudge is made.

Streets now broken

once were paved, 

dystopian playground 

that can't be saved

blasting off like 

rocketships, 

careful to mind 

broken hips.

Steadfast like masts 

on olden ships, 

chocolate cookies 

without the chips, 

a bust of a long 

forgotten mannequin, 

shares cobwebs and dust 

with lustful novels harlequin.

Pornography disguised as romance, 

good for nothing more than laughs, 

that once filled the room, 

then caked the walls;

the floral prints inside the hall.

Buttons strewn across the floor,

sensible spools of yarn,

and cutting boards,

I memorize ev'ry cracked tile,

one day, I will emulate her style.

When all things old are new again,

and I wish I’d paid closer attention.

Careless clouds of smoke 

billowed with each puff,

of her menthol cigarettes

that made me cough.

Murder mysteries flashed 

on the silver screen,

whodunits solved by 

faded beauty queens.

She relives her glory days,

filled with movie stars 

and runaways.

Yesterday always sounds so neat,

when she talks of brawls 

that spilled into the street.

The ruthless record player slows to a halt;

hair once fiery red is now pepper-salt.

Classically beautiful, 

reeking of sophistication,

a kiss placed on each cheek, 

I'm fascinated.

My connection to the golden age

closes the door, 

then waltzes away.

Unbeknownst to me,

this would be the last time,

I would sip mint juleps 

and drink sherry wine.

My fairy grandmother 

slipped away that night,

dancing off into the starry light.