Lipstick, 2017

On Meeting Morrison

The effort we put into getting lecture tickets

was unbelievable. Had I put that much effort and

dedication into any other aspect of my life, I’d be rich and famous

or even published.

A hurricane prevented us from meeting another author,

but that’s fine. “It’s not like she’s Toni Morrison.”

There was another acclaimed writer. My nervous chatter evoked a smile

of amusement and gratitude in her. I could handle that. 

What could I say to Toni Morrison?

Driving to meet Morrison, I thought of what she meant to me.

The supreme storyteller. Woman of strength and intellect.

Words poised themselves at her pen to form

knives that dive into your soul,

knives that make your scars bleed.

They stole my milk.

The maternal instinct to kill a child to save her.

The simple beauty you see when you open

your eyes to the ugliness.

To write like her, we cannot do it. Few mortals possess this skill.

We struggle to find

words

plots

time

a place in our lives to write.

We who dream of one acceptance letter from a publisher cannot

dream of a Nobel.

Kripa and I cut the end of the lecture

to secure a place in line. Stood in the long library hallway,

high ceilings echoed footsteps on stone and amplified hushed tones, 

drowning out any sounds of the lecture. We calculated the distance from the table, the number

of bodies and the books they held. We would make it.

We rehearsed what we would say: “We love your work.”

Kripa wanted a signature on a card for a special patient who“loves your work.”

We watched the faces of those who returned with signed copies

or a mere glimpse of her majestic Author.

They beamed, they glowed. They had seen the blessed Writer.

We longed to be there and feel her Power.

We hoped she would endow us with her secrets,

accept our words, our gratitude.

We hoped we would gain a bit of the fairy dust that dances in her aura, that

would make us write as she does.

Yet, we were only nameless faces in line. Bodies with back packs and

winter coats, scarves swaddling our throats as we clutched dog-eared copies

of Beloved or glossy new ones from the table outside.

We approached the table only to perform a silent

exchange of a book for a signature.

She glanced at me with curiosity

as I requested a handshake. She complied softly.

As Kripa stepped ahead, the lights of a cameraman

forced the Author to look away.

Their eyes barely met.

In moments we were walking away. Our books suddenly seemed

empty and Kripa’s card was blank. We made our way through the crowd,

a queue of anticipation and excitement, meandering through the Hall. 
 Should we tell them?

As we left the library with coffee in styrofoam cups, 
we pulled hoods over our heads, 
careful not to let the rain fall on our books or coffee. 

Bhumi Mata - Mother Earth ~*~

It began as pesky sores, ones she brushed aside

until they spread,

becoming rooted

and polluted.

She can no longer deny her suffering.

Blood surges and billows from her wounds,

coagulating into a slick blackness.

A toxic mixture oozes over skin, wings, and fins.

The venom chokes them, muffles their wails and

rapes them of breathe.

Her tears mix with the congealed blood and stain the shores.

Her reflection in the light of the moon reveals a distortion.

She has lost her luscious forests.

She has been shaved and razed into stubble of dry pricks and

concrete has been poured into the slashes.

Her crops yield poison, if they offer harvest at all.

She is melting in the excruciating heat.

The nausea is overwhelming.

She coughs phlegm of lava and it drips over the rocks,

and black clouds rise as waters swell and simmer.

She cannot balance upon withering lotus petals

and carry forth the charade of forgiveness.

Her eyes flash brightly. She sweeps her hair back.

It flutters in the wind, leaving streaks across the sky.

Her bindiya glows red

as she calls the planets.

She raises her hands to receive

Wind, Sun, Fire, Water, and Heavens.

She tugs the clouds and winds to her chest

knowing they will help her.

She churns the waters so the poisons rise to the top,

separating from the nectar of life.

The oceans are whipped into a cooling froth.

She stretches and shrugs her boulders,

shifts some plates and tilts the axis to alleviate the throbs.

She pulls down the energy of the universe and

A sudden

stillness

descends.

She steps off the lotus

to birth a new life.