'Tonight, the flamed flesh of your aril/ longs for the bitter-sour love of my heart,' writes the poet.
I soak a pomegranate seed overnight,
pour blessed water and some sadness over it.
A bad seed will be fruitless.
Origin of loneliness is imbibed in the mole,
around my vagina.
Yawning into the day, hawk moth brought rain –
isotopes required for ger-mi-na-tion of isolation.
What do I germinate into?
What comes out of my vagina?
One part compost, two parts coco peat,
three parts sand, four parts soil
and two hands to knead my body
and plant some roses.
I prefer procreation of a garden than a bloodline.
In the compost of locked days,
things ger-mi-nate into neglected spaces.
The perfect weather for imbibition
of a future is still invisible.
Melon seeds sprout and dry out in my mouth,
craving a beginning.
I break the moss rose stems
and insert them in thick muddy evenings.
It is a process of curing anything
trying to recuperate from a trauma.
If it’s too damp,
the suspended seedlings between life and death
won’t last the night.
Untend your care to the ones
you want to take root inside you.
The distress in the veins of the trees
consumed by fear,
will find the dry air of your consciousness.
Slowly you will see,
some will frizzle back into the soil,
some will shoot up your spine with support
and some will shade your hands.
Feast on the fallen pomegranates
Tonight, the dried pulp of the fallen pomegranate
is the blood of my heart.
Tonight, the iris of my eyes is your seed,
sulking in the valves of my heart.
Tonight, mealy bugs on your flower,
are growing in the skin of my heart.
Tonight, I burn the word love in the fire of your longing
and bury it in the two halves of my heart.
Tonight, I find the butterflies feasting
on the bellowing tender sadness of my heart.
Tonight, the flamed flesh of your aril,
longs for the bitter-sour love of my heart.
Tonight, your bark turns pale, anxiously cries
and falls in the empty abyss of my heart.
Tonight, my palms reach out, touch your memory,
your pain in my scars and you grow again
from the iced tendrils of my heart.
The pomegranate tree is an alienist,
mixing coffee nights to cure my insomnia.
The cobweb on my body is the reaction
to loneliness, marinated in grief.
Layer upon layer of years of yearning —
aging by the pillar blocking the sunlight.
Like me, it is brittle, breaking and bruised.
It has lived this immobility as long as I have.
Bulbuls fight on the water tank,
a pair of sparrow in heat,
dance around the chhatri of its branches.
It can feel the anxious blackout days,
my haunting gaze and the box elder bugs
consuming its leaves.
Crush the red flowers with some love —
add some magic dust, moonlight, my eyelashes,
a drop of tear, sound of slow breathing,
stormy night and the soil of broken dreams.
Drink the combusting taaq-e-nisiyan to sleep in a sleep.
*Taaq-e-nisiyan is a Persian word for a place where forgotten memories go
My soiled palm traces your strong branches —
feeling the rough roundness scratching
the skin of the lizard lost in thought.
Did Eve eat the pomegranate and sinned for all?
My mouth is lip-syncing the scarlet sunsets on my body —
red, orange, pink, yellow and then a sudden azure.
speak
speak
speak
I wish ammi could read the letters;
I hang on your winter branches desiring conversations.
No one likes to write on how it feels to breathe,
through the mask in the deadly air?
It is the skin, the seeds, the colour
and the decaying nature of pomegranates
I guard instinctively.
I am a gardener carefully preserving
the souls of trees in my garden.
In my dream,
you grow without your scars.
You walk around, holding my hand
and just listen to my falling breaths on the moonlit river.
You have the gift of forgetfulness.
Swallows shoot across like stars,
visible to only those in pain.
No one desires to love my sadness;
no one can hear my nimble heartbeat.
Can you really fix my torn soul?
Tears have dried my heart,
so much that I can’t cry anymore.
This place is where your roots heal the soil.
Here only those malang rooh can enter,
cry and sleep peacefully.
Somewhere there is an end to suffering.
On my epitaph you must write:
‘I was unloved and loved’
and keep me safe in your embrace.
*malang rooh is a bohemian or a sufi soul.
(Shortlisted for Yuva Puraskar 2020, Sufia Khatoon is a multi-lingual performance poet, artist, literary translator and facilitator. She is the Co-Founder of Rhythm Divine Poets community Kolkata and the Editor of EKL Review. She was nominated in 100 Inspiring Indian Muslim Women from West Bengal by RBTC)