I don’t belong here
I love chipped crayons,
they tell me colours can come in different forms:
pitch-black darkness can become the reincarnation of red,
moonlight can subdue the proud ribbon-like body of the river,
wise men need not have a white beard.
I often whisper to the wavelength,
ask her to, once, and for all,
be flexible if dispersion is an absolute necessity,
to tune into madness
even if it’s her least-favourite frequency.
Sometimes, I even read her poems,
so she knows I have word bubbles
that don’t blow my way.
Similar to the paintballs
that she complains are too unruly and wild.
I am a laywoman,
with no command on phonetics
the shit sounds similar to me,
I often tell my husband–
take care of calories, the shit,
he, being the ultimate Science guy,
says, it’s a good fat joke
Once in a while, we’re on the same wavelength.
Nibbling the crayons, I often think,
I too can think.
An old woman judges me in a gathering
I find the silhouette of mom against the stunning sunset, tracing my footprints when a 70-year-old woman flaunts her half-tamed cupid’s bow in a majlis.
She looks for a golden ratio; here lies square, oval, rectangle congruent with the door, bar and a crosspiece.
Chris Murray 