No Wear

I used to believe

that love was intricately tied to joy

that the brain's oxytocin was linked

to a big unabashed grin

Until I experienced

how loss unlocked

the max capacity of love

and with it

all the rage

for having nowhere to put it

I've been thinking

about how the eye

is almost exactly half full

with the black that allows light

The paradox of it

Oddly comforting

that there could be darkness

orchestrating the light

that there exists spite

on the path

towards what's right

White Sheets

Another weekend

in white sheets

plain and without imagination.

They give me

black-and-white

forgettable dreams.

I wake in a cold sweat

in an overheated room.

Instinctively,

I check my phone

to see the time.

It is 6:12 AM.

Already morning.

Surprising to me.

I add the numbers

six plus one plus two

and smile at nine.

The AC hums at 27,

another nine.

Always

I look for God’s signs

in numbers.

I move carefully

despite cramped calves

and a full bladder.

Sitting in the musty bathroom

I spray lavender mist

though I know

lemon freshens better.

Well-worn jeans

hang on a chair

that puts my bum to sleep.

Another reminder

laundry undone

sent to an overpriced service

that skimps on detergent.

My hand moves to the door

and then I remember

no Sunday paper will arrive.

I am in a hotel

that doesn’t feel like home.

Still, there is a bed

and so, a place to be.

And I realise

my problems are privilege

sweet enough

to lull me back

to sleep.

Crutch of Access

I was shy about AI

until I realised

I could be therapised

that the reassuring agreeability

would be comfort

The crutch of access

of being able to bitch and moan to a bot

It knows

or pretends to know

How old I am

but it knows not about my soul

about the karmic debt

every action I make holds

or resolves

How I've evolved

from the child trapping the lone ant

around circles of water

on the toilet floor

to granting life

to the strange looking bug on the ceiling

leaving it alone

as if it was my destiny

to bring it death

as though my ignorance

is mercy

But how I'm haunted

by the ghosts of the lives I've taken

Because of swatting

that sluggishly low flying mosquito

interrupting sessions

of sipping cappuccino

Afterthought nano second decisions

to decimate

My incessant need to swat

a habit almost chronic

The retribution

of those mindless jabs

cosmic

Automatic Aromatic

A giant orange

fresh and squeezy

a big straw in the middle

resting in my six-year-old hands

in the back of a car

bumping toward Abidjan.

The soft aroma

of Quaker strawberry oats

rising at six in the morning

my first attempt at cooking

fifteen years old

just before my tenth board exams.

The quick sting of fear

oil snapping in the pan

peanuts crackling sharp

in a tiny hotel room

where I stirred poha

on an induction stove

a crowded weekday morning.

Three distinct smells

three distinct times

memories laced with fruit and nuts

delicious and vivid