I will write my face in a tangerine song, In a sleeveless, low-cut blouse that exposes my nape to a crowd of Rotten vegetables; That I eat at noon and save inside my cavities. My mouth is a beehive but I don't spill honey on plain pages, I say a sour prayer hidden under the black veins of a tongue that I never owned- She is either a mistress of the world or a slave to my rage. Strings of guitar, That is how these fingers caress my flesh; At times, they're a bit too rigid So I bite them under silk pillows and golden trophies. I will talk about myself, But a stye blinds me- The mucus and the pus, a river I'd rather drink from than Watch this reflection crawl down my throat.
An obituary: R.K. Narayan wrote one to his father, I will write to a dead root from my Childhood's glass of carrot juice. The gap between my arms is the distance I have never measured, I'm still very special; A wheatish lizard stuck to the off-white corridor, Memories are made and I forget why these chocolate brown walls will never melt in my mouth. I chew upon a sandwich, Taking the bite of a tomb tasting fresh, wet sand I pretend to smile but there's a poem stuck in my head, You are dead; I search for words and plaster you back to life. I was a walking parchment The chipped paint on the corner of your mouth, Your teeth as yellow as the sunshine; Mine as yellow as yours As dead as an autumn leaf that confuses its crumbling with acceptance. I don't sing anymore, I leave letters to your grave promising to never return. Each promise is a poem I can never complete.
My neck is a loose bolt A napkin spread on the lap; There's jam on my bread and there's butter on your toast, We call it a dinnertime riot. While breakfast moans the name of some extravagant ray of sunshine he has lost, I sleep in my cubicle Where the royal blue notice board is the only one that's glad for my Existence; My night extends and the afternoon yawns at the immobile ceiling fan, A playground to the winter dust. The distant tea washes over me This sense of longing I will not describe- Because I eat harsh words and they Always come out in pangs of Anxiety, I will not describe my river of peace Doused in ginger; Marking an absence of the sweet folly In exchange for home. Comes the mouth of black And her luminating iris, My jam and your butter- We roll over to each other's side of the bed, I realise I'm talking to empty space. I can hear the curtains laugh, Gorgeous pink satin- A childhood toy and three light bulbs The flickering shrieks of Electricity, Some pages between my laughter lines; My tongue A midnight crisis Swims into a spoonful of Nutella.
Nameera Anjum is an intern columnist at Imperium Publication. She edited Janmat, the departmental magazine at St. Xavier’s College, and served as Assistant Editor at Illuminatus: Research Journal, Department of Economics and Political Science (2019-20). She has volunteered at Mansagar Clean-up drive’, The Green Dream Foundation (2019), and was awarded first position at the Veethika, Slam Poetry Competition, Maharani College, Jaipur