Revival

My fingers are cold 

pressed against that mug 

you bought me-

I rummage through 

our tea collection-

I still can’t use your favourite.

And I still don’t put a lid over 

a pot of boiling water-

Yes, I know- 

you’ve told me- but-

it’s comforting 

to watch it sputter 

from still 

to effervescent.

I’ve started using that

teapot you hated to

brew the teas we kept 

for special occasions-

I know- 

you’d laugh-

too. 

I watch milk squiggle 

down the mug

with the colour

of your eyes-

as steam dances on the rim-

I’ve forgotten how much

sugar you liked-

I still burn my tongue

to check it’s alright. 

When the tea stops swirling

and everything combines

I bring the mug’s lip to mine

and warm my cold body.

Tomato Paste

Like me 

when the tomato left 

its native land 

it was scattered 

across the seas.

Every home claimed it.

Every home 

chopped and diced

its taut unbranded skin

with cold metal:

its juices spilling on the

marbled altar of 

tradition and

enterprise.

But goodness feeds on sacrifice:

so, I will grind this tomato smooth

with garlic, ginger, and onions-

and I will fry this paste in the pan

till oil bleeds from all its sides-

and then they will sniff me out

and then will crinkle their noses

and then tell me

This is so authentic 

and then tell me

This is so wholesome

and I will tell them 

not to worry:

I use the cans they sell 

at the Indian store.

So, I won’t explain how 

it’s made from scratch: 

flavoured with 

my mother’s complaints 

that something is missing.

Starlight

In the darkness of my room

my pocket screen churns colours 

in the shape of one of us

and says 

we are all stardust and swirling in the starlight

the starlight that docks ships in the harshest planets

is the same that made them inhospitable 

the starlight that feeds the earth 

is the same that burns its fuels

the starlight that ricochets in a motherboard

is the same that reminds us of pain

the starlight that paints men in the sky

is same that liberates them in flame

the starlight we used to preserve our minds

is the same we will use to destroy our kind.

My eyes burn 

as if I’ve been staring directly 

into the sun.

As I drift into the darkness

my dreams 

swirl, 

glimmer,

and disappear

in an ever-shifting beam 

still cupped in my hands.

Source: 
https://soundcloud.com/low-light-mixes/dust-particles-in-sunlight