March 18, 2020

 

Today I’ll fold my work clothes neat

in the cabinet farthest from the bedroom door,

hide my leather shoes, canvas sneakers

at the bottom shelf of the shoe rack;

roll my neckties, hang my sweaters,

turn most pairs of my socks to balls;

arrange my pens and sticky notes in a pack;

confine in a box my 3-year old knapsack.

I’ll ration the canned goods and some leftovers

for two weeks. It will be hard to go out.

I’ll befriend the citronella, converse with the snake plant -

an odd pair perched on my balcony’s gravel stone ledge.

I will get more used to the stench of the backyard canal,

neighbors nervously pacing our building’s narrow corridors,

blares of sirens rushing to a nearby hospital,

my Aegean cat rubbing her nose on the floor.

Things I’m assured will be within 35 square meters;

the size of my world, the new normal.

The steps I’ll measure will be the length

of how my dreams stroll further in my mind.

Nights will be darker, humid and restless;

days will be quiet, replete of the scurries and hustle.

Working hours will be spent in front of two monitors

placed near a window for a view of the sky.

And on weekends, pastimes on paintings and prayers

that the world won’t descend towards chaos and hell,

then binge watch frequently Aamir Khan’s 3 Idiots

to keep telling myself all is well, all is well.

Under Construction (still)

The houses mushroomed with blue roofs
for almost a decade.
Settled dusts, dried paint
left their own craquelures.
Through the window, late morning lights
poured in different slants.
The cerulean roofs carried
hesitant bird chirps.
A tricycle travailed lazily
over the cracking asphalt road.
The rusted tractors parked
under an incomplete flyover
had, on their one-armed claws,
residues of leveled down
century-old trees.
A young boy led his reed-thin goats
to where the grasses still grew.
The old farmer who once owned
a little plot of that land, sighed
"houses should stand here
for the foreigners, the city dwellers,
that's what Mayor said.
But look, nine years after I gave up the land
they're barely sold yet."

Do not lift the pen

Do not lift
the pen. Don't
even think
about it,
excuses
to stray from
your penciled
gray outlines.

Think of those
light sketches
the way Earth
Mother made,
on her skin,
deep ridges
for rivers
to flow rich
ceaselessly.

Imagine
like rivers
your inkflows
layer on
the graphite,
thick imprints
of your hand's
careful, slight
signature.

Imagine
the quickness,
the swiftness,
the utter
thoughtlessness
letting lines
bear genius,
make mistakes.

Do not lift
the pen. Don't
entertain
doing it:
random strokes,
curlicued
adventures
dry quickly
from previous
glistening
wet daydreams.