I stare at me
etched on the timeline
like my mother’s irremovable scar
a minor blip
sandwiched right between
Bhopal and Chernobyl
I crease the worn page
tilt my head a little
experiment—make prism prisons
to trap dead light
manipulate those smooth contours
our chronology—a funny thing
I imagine emptiness, clench my fist tighter
but eventually I lose strength
finger by finger releasing
spreading those paper mountains apart
as slowly, painfully I reappear
this was no accident
I didn’t fall—I was pulled
with blunt metal instruments
and man’s brute force
I stare at me
etched on the timeline
right between Bhopal and Chernobyl
now crumpled and forgotten
under receipts and spent gold

—

I’m a girl/woman compelled to write something/anything almost daily. Alienated, living in some foreign place or other, I long for the familiarity of the motherland though it almost shames me to say so. My introspective thoughts manifest themselves as scribbles on junk food receipts and the underside of my denims, or as the scratchy biro imprints scarring my left hand.