poem

every time i read a poem and it’s not about dashain

barely seeds begin to sprout in my gut.

lemon green. what makes a heart

angry? swollen veins stretch

in aama’s thighs. the heels of her palms push

the sticky dough into rasbari. feeding

a goat wheat bran before slaughter is common

during dashain. but i don’t miss blood

or men flying kites. don’t tell

the god of rain to stop pouring.

the rice fields do not need more water. but i do

not want this to be a poem. i want this to be angry.

so let me start again. every time i read a poem

and it’s not about the sliced green

branches of the tall bamboo swings tightened

over and over with the prickly jute ropes

the holy water in the kalash dries. pages

of the calendar flip backward. it’s 2015.

october 22nd is circled in red. i don’t know

what it’s like to be abroad and not find a poem

about dashain. one where the ting ting of brass bells.

the smell of sandalwood. the vapor rising

from milk that aama’s watching. abbu’s on the sofa

waiting for his chiya. but this anger is not about chiya.

i’ve shown enough of that. this is about the absence

of a poem. there’s no metaphor here. no simile.

no paradox because i don’t have time for that.

i just want a poem about a girl missing home

during dashain. and the poem needs to be written. now

i am reading a poem and it’s about dashain.