Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
The trail has wilted. What was verdant is now cadaverous. Her veins have darkened, the migraines have worsened even as the doses have increased in consumption and futility. Her mind is a perpetual eclipse. Most nights she is a scatter of endless smoke. Still, she makes this run, queues up patiently, fills up forms, questionnaires, batteries. The process is the proof, apparently. The process is supposed to be reliable in its indurate clockwork, coded antidotes and forced demands for patience. Care can be form of control too. She concedes and waits. Ongoing diagnosis, experimental drugs; a cadaver exquisito of wellness.
Maybe she could try yoga or journaling, some recommend. She nods and notes Youtube postures that would ease the dragging ache from where fracking stabbed her spine. Is it PTSD when she freezes at the abrupt shriek of a drill?
Her blood now thickened with oil spills. Half her body nurses the remnants of burn wounds, the other is a muscle memory of violent floods. Some of her family want her to quit the paltry lament and harden up that cowhide resolve. It is all in her head. Her head where the ice is now on fire.
She collects her prescription and races along a predetermined path. The traffic is at standstill. A taxi accommodates her tired body. She is wordless inside her mask. Outside, placards and slogans collide with restless honking. Live cameras document hammers and chisels smashing a few shop windows. Some trashcans are set on fire. Hundreds of vehicles blow smoke is a toxic symphony.
She rests her head against the cab’s backseat trying to not to let the nausea spill out on the floor of the vehicle. She repeats the therapist’s mantra to herself…
5 Things you can see around you
4 Things you can touch around you
3 Things you can hear around you
2 Things you can smell around you
1 think you can taste around you