Hiraeth

By Jagari Mukherjee

TOMATOES

1

My sister tells me

that I take eons

to chop tomatoes…

She is right.

Although my knife

slides through to slice

in half the soft carmen globe,

and my mouth waters at

the daydream of a salt-spiked

glass of Bloody Mary,

I feel bad for the wasted seeds.

2

There are trees hidden

in each seed that I scoop

out and throw away.

Green trees with red tomatoes.

Just as there might have been

seeds buried in me too.

You can treat me

to a glass of Bloody Mary

to bury the guilt,

but I will always take eons

to chop tomatoes.

HIRAETH

In Thimpu

a baby takin

ate nuts

from my open palm --

his soft muzzle

made me wonder

at my own tenderness

In Calcutta

the time

you let me

hold your hand

and Aphrodite

envied Cynthia

her moonlit chastity

That evening in Bombay

when I lost a shoe

to the sea

and went barefooted

to Colaba Causeway

for my still-existing

sequinned pumps

At New Orleans

every time I drank

berry-hued cocktails and wore

my sister's blue velvet dress

to mend a fresh-broken heart

And,

some day

I will hand you

the full list

of homes

abandoned

and then

you can create

a kite to fly…

THE LAST SUNFLOWER

In quarantine

I miss sunflowers

and think of hope.

I take up crayons

and color in yellow petals

on walls.

I imprint my despair

in bright flower patterns,

blindly searching to turn

toward the sun

scorching the migrant worker's

back in the month of May.

Sadness clings to me like

the rats gnawing on a rope

of hunger heavy with a

wailing child.

I color in the last sunflower

on my wall;

it sets my home on fire.

PINE TREE

Love is a frost-bitten blue pine

in winter snow--ice-water dripping

from its bare branches...

…the same branches, which in

the green summer, I had

stretched out to you.

You plucked off a cone--

your souvenir, and walked away

sans a glance.

Then winter dawned….

its brush wet the sky in

sad pale washes while

the earth grew white.

You took the rest of

the seasons away,

their color palettes

shimmering in the sun.

I remained in tenebris;

the blue pine remained

to weep ice-water.

BLUE FLOWERS

When the heart is blue

and on rocky terrain,

I stretch out my hand

for the peace of flowers

fragile like magic glass

my luminous flowers

break the terrain

like bright blue lamps

and I become a blue flower

unknown

and at peace

DRUGSTORE

(Detroit 2018)

The ancient drugstore

has been closed for ages,

shutting up the past within.

I survey the glass storefront

to discern curiosities;

shabby-chic bottles with wooden stoppers

and corks of various shapes,

labeled with calligraphic writings

(too intriguing).

Remnants of potions remain

in the bottles, colors drawn

from the Palette of Everything--

chocolate-hued, orange-rose syrups

to delight the eyes…

(I don't know about the taste,

sweet or bitter, and I cannot

write lies in a haste.)

Also seen were transparent, translucent

pink and white creams and gels

on crammed, adorned shelves.

Manufactured by Elves.

FORGETTING YOU IN WINTER QUARANTINE: A SHORT SONNET SEQUENCE

SONNET 1

Do you remember two decades back

we talked quietly all night long?

We built silver castles and a haystack

and Life could do us no wrong...

the moon was young and bold

the stars sparkled soft and strong

and the celestial orbs carried on as of old.

Our days were wrapped in fireflies of lust

and words wrapped in gift papers of gold.

I think of you, I think how love was dust

that slips through fingers like starlight.

The snow melted. Romance was rust.

How far since then that Time took flight!

I open doors of History to recall my forgotten sight.

SONNET 2

Safe in bed, locked in my cerulean home,

I unlock History's creaking wintry door

of Memory: long it has been since I did roam

and take delight in the world's wondrous store.

The dusty curtain I drew aside

and the starlight did on the vision pour.

I saw the room where recollections abide

and on every wall your portraits hung.

You watched me and I could not hide

the pain that tears from my eyes did wrung.

Do tears really turn pearls, I wonder

so a pearl choker around my neck is strung.

Our shared history do I to the world render

in words which stood witness to my surrender.

SONNET 3

The moment of surrender, on a February afternoon

lies engraved on mellow golden sunlight.

I am unlikely to unremember it soon--

yet, to remember, I've lost my right.

The Sun, an yellow aubade flower, fragrant amorous

shone denying the existence of night.

We smoked the green stuff to be glamorous...

listening to birdsong at each inhalation.

You flicked the ashes on your purple thesaurus.

To say I loved you will be no exaggeration

(the way you flicked the ashes, the joke

about my sonnets, how I seek salvation.)

Now alone in the sunlight my sonnets I soak.

I keep a dried flower but the vase we broke.

SONNET 4

Locked inside, forgetting you in winter quarantine

is not easy. I could write about you in a tome

and become both the Wife of Bath and Madame Eglantyne.

The fountain pen with a silver box for a home--

you have one and I have one. Identical in frame.

I keep it away for it can sketch a phantom…

I wonder if our phantoms will be the same.

You, no doubt, find it easy to forget

and from the pages scratch out my name.

I grow a sun garden with flowers of regret

and flick my ashes in a bottle-green glass.

And promise myself to unremember you yet.

Either I cease to dwell, or shatter myself at last:

you know the cliché: all things must pass.

By Jagari Mukherjee