Glass Duality

kolkata (“calcutta”)- October 2023

—

factory toilers and

Midnight thieves,

scraggly, limp, sluggish skin–

stained brown of wrinkled

chai leaves

brass-boned knuckles

tough with fluid pebbles,

seared cuts

and retractable knees,

bent and blistered

doused in yellow oil

in the day,

a verbose hairdresser,

of all the diction

her people managed;

tea brewers, a store in

front, a chicken coop

in the back;

lost teachers, slapping

rulers on

cafeteria desks

wall builders,

tabla beaters,

cow chasers

factory toilers and midnight thieves,

with scraggly, limp, sluggish skin

listening for points at

the Border, which

story they must parasite,

suck the juice from

next—a hummingbird

roped to bitter flowers

the worn and tattered lift

their chipped fingernails

to their tasteless lips

hold charcoal with

blackened palms,

tough pen to dust burnt books;

try to repel the tumbling

wall, buzz of undone concrete,

yelps of children locked

centuries behind

at 12—নীরবতা—time is lost- November 2023

—

at 6 — she slaps her cotton pillow over her head

like the slap she felt across her purple lips

by the frigid air of her now country

her—a name they’d continue to lock

in the clattering cold crystalized caustic lock-box

trapping all who made these lands their own

foolish—বোকা—they threw the daggers at her ears

trailing her scraped feet,

her blue-bruised calves,

crackling knees—bloody daggers

at 2 — my mother and i lie awake

lovely shadows cutting deep into her skin

like moles that cannot be healed

blistering above and below the saggy–

death-ridden color beneath her eyes

heal, i whisper,

paint foundation over the cracks

cover, আবরণ it all up

at 4 — she rocks back and forth in our bed

wrapping herself in the satin sheets

much too thin to imprison heat

scratching through the layers till what is left

is no blanket at all;

but soon, she kicks them off her feet

and i can see her in our home town

fighting back the beautiful engravings,

শিল্প written in our family;

kicking away the bomb that took both

her father’s arms

the curse that broke her mother

and poisoned her last brother

and crafting for herself a brown woman’s tongue—

our venerable weapon

বোকা, chucked again and again like cricket balls

Bitch—green saliva oozing from their teeth

striking deep into her gut

her swollen,

swelling,

Growing—gut

until out in clotting blood

a child touches her fractured shoulder

ঘুমাতে যাও

go back to bed

Bidai // before // we gave you // to the flames– November 2023

—

সবসময় যা সঠিক তা করুন —

the words of my mother

and my mother’s mother

and my mother’s mother’s mother

painting along the crooked brown canvas, lined with white strokes ​of pencil

Goodnight // sweet cherry lipstick dripping down her teeth // dhonobadh // ​thank you // she never thought to gift // kartobo // because family holds duty ​as deeply churned butter // and melts with the same urgency

Love // carved deep into my sagging earlobes // anondo // joy // ​dancing through the kitchen // satarko // careful // stomping on ​ghosts of linens // we stole last week after the sale

সবকিছুর উপরে পরিবার —

a sacrifice to our Gods

we outline in green cement

outside the paved glass door

the morning of Diwali

ami apna ke ghrina kori // resounding through my bones // ghrina // hate // ​tearing deep into my flesh // byatha // hurt // marking flavors like ornate ​knives // the smell of rotten mangos // buried in orange fur

ektu otho // hush of mother as she lifts my chin // shono // listen // ​her arthritic hand pushed deep against my cheek // thanda // cold ​// burned by my young pink blush

niye nao // closes her roughened hand over mine // cracks ​like ice within her grasp // before i // inhale the soot // she ​leaves behind

jihba—our word for hidden– December 2023

—

in my mother’s mother’s tongue

in my tongue

গরম—garama—carves the light we cannot escape

she adorns the littered streets with her

muddy lips; scorched, smoky

tongue; cold, cracked ears

tanda pacho? her whispers soft

against my skin—palms hold

soft behind my shattered skull

and all these days, i wonder

if she used the same pallid fingers

to stroke the hair of her drowning brother

আগুন—aguna—the beautiful we run from

our minds fill with tales of fallen trees

yet leave out the fallen bodies

আত্মা—atma

when a brown woman dies,

her tongue turned to soot

and her coffin lies heavy with shackles

in my mother’s tongue

আলো—alo—flames are all we see or feel

trickling down our backs

deep under our chipped-brick home

where dark pipes spark in protest

shouts of faith fill the alleys

cigarette rolls, torn clay, old binded stories

she lights a candle beneath her feet

lets it burn into the callouses

we mark garama onto the walls in stolen paint

and whisper chants of flames

—

when i was 12, mother sat me down beside her, as she flattened her ​hair on the burning stove. for us, i knew, ‘the talk’ was something ​different; i smelt waves of coconut fill the room, saturate the empty ​air. heat, sweat, tugs at my worn collar. now, her eyes caught on fire ​with her broken strands.

she whispered, listen, a whisper so loud it burst my ears, vibrated in ​my chest. i shook with all the rhythm, felt on my toes the rough, ​unfinished flooring below. my heels decorated with the calluses of ​her palms. do not blame them for the widening of their eyes, the ​thunder in their throats.

she twisted my curls while steam rose from hers.

that is all they are said to be.

নোংরা গল্প

my story of filth

—

at 17 years old my great-grandmother learned how

pecan paint swept thin over her arms,

held a slimy curse, roped around her fingertips

she wept her snot when

pale men slammed through the fragile door

wrapped her husband’s wrists with bloody string

dragged him out to war

আমি তোমাকে পৃথিবীর ওপারে দেখব

i will see you beyond the violent world

we will hide in darker skies

at 20 years old my grandmother learned how

shiny creams could fight brown demons

tie them on a leash

she woke to spread it on grandfather's face

swipes washing away the dirt; she wished

she placed it on his shoulders, before

all work abandoned him, all work

except with bombs

আমি এখনও তোমার বাহু অনুভব করতে পারি

i can still feel your arms

cooling me like leather

—

at 6 years old i learned how

shattered men could take their sharpest glass and

throw it like a dagger

uncle touched the feet of store owners

scribed blessings on their calves, until a day that

sun smiled on his back, he found a place to sleep

but woke with chains around his waist

at 6 years old

white officers warned of the horror he had made,

spoke of strangling, nails piercing the purest skin

at 6 years old they shouted

এমন পুরুষদের কখনই বিয়ে করবেন না

do not marry men who look like him

and they slapped their backs, laughed

down the littered roads, when

at 6 years old

i touched my mushy, tawny veins

bit my tongue down hard

learned to fear myself

bengali kiss- August 2023

after Ocean Vuong’s “Kissing in

Vietnamese”

—

my grandmother kisses

As though her roughened hands

clutch your face,

like the bowl of yogurt she

Barely brought across the border

looking at you with all your

Sweetness,

the silky white cream just enough to last

one travel

And feeling the furry surface of

The coconut shell, so far from

Weak but stained with the blood

Of her scratched up knuckles;

she kisses as though drinking

In that yogurt for herself—

The natural, fresh taste

of nothing.