Poetry Corner
Gray Mornings
By: Komalroop Kaler
A silver puddle floods my rose garden
my knees scrape against the cold cement floor
I smudge water droplets off glossy leaves
sweet Rain, chilly August winds coalesce
pink petals fall and drift toward green grass
I sweep the softness back into brown soil
Wet cascades kissing the back of my neck
like a mother’s hug Rain drapes my body
I close my eyes, I bow my head and smile
stretching my arms, I lock my body tight
slippery fingers cradle my spirit
nails dig into my rose-coloured jacket
I nestle my head into her warm chest
like a child I cocoon into her lap
as she combs through my tangled brown hair strands
she sings hymns into my ears and lets go
In the Autumn Gold
By: Kaitlyn Matthews
Look, a moth flutters toward the moon,
the misty clouds, the evening sky. The neighbourhood
is washed in hazy gold, tender and wistful—
Like the shade of late autumn light in your kitchen window
and your mother’s fingers, dipped in coconut oil
or skinning an unripe mango, sprinkling
the cut fruit with salt. And the gold-brown chapati dough
your father flattens against the pan as dead leaves
skitter across empty lamplit roads
and gather by the broken fence in the yard.
This autumn evening is only a graveyard
for the wreckage of childhood; the surface
of the day splinters, and the twilight beneath is soft
and fragile. The world, like a child holding her breath,
her nose pressed against cold kitchen windowpanes,
watching each memory in the golden dusk tremble, flutter.
Bury Me at the Crossroads
By: Dagale Mohammed
Bury me at the crossroads so that I remain when gone
Flesh renewed, familiar but estranged from who I am or was
Leave me at that juncture to taunt fate, while it gnarls my limbs
A brilliant convergence, a terrifying dawn!
Bury me at the crossroads, my death irresolute in its finality
But don’t fret for me, my three-headed mistress will keep me full
wanting, never satisfied so that I may drink with the monstrous,
and sleep with the foul, the damned dancing on my arms
Let me feast and be feasted upon,
When she has sucked and plucked all that is good in me, all that I have to offer
She’ll leave me to starve hands outstretched, empty
Her gales of laughter leave me shaking and bare, her airy whispers full of promise
I will die and she will return, molding me from my ashes, no memories of strife
So, bury me at the crossroads, for I have lived here all my life
