Wonder by Nameera Anjum Khan
A wonder. A womb.
I have a feeling that my eyes are too many faces looking down at the dusty pavement. But the skies were never made out of ribs, the seas never mastered the tides of my blood and the moon could never command the gravity of my heart.
This may look like a weak surrender upon a deaf glance but look again. It’s a wonder, not of virginity re-shaping itself or the veil of pregnancy blooming through nine seasons.
It is nine births, and more – all emerging from the point of no return. My head is all the colours of your rainbow touch. My skin is all the senses of your secret desire. My existence is all the questions you’re too afraid ask, let alone answer.
Sex. A fluttering of –
Sometimes, I see myself as the God. Sometimes, I see myself as the Creation. In both versions, I remain a sinner seeking heaven – an irony dodging misery only to write poems on it.
How do you see me?
Why do you see me?
You say that the sun is out tonight, I never knew untimely mornings, not face-to-face at least. I had heard of a happening that corrupts itself overtime. A sickness that spreads like creepers, everywhere. A tangible dignity swinging from the chandelier.
A woman and her birth – the untimely sunrise and the timely corruption.
Everything. Inebriated buds of truth. Nothing you’ve read before and everything you’ve read before; you die everyday just to see. How? Why?
Birth – the memory burns. When will it rain?
Demise by Nameera Anjum Khan
I am a flower pot
Tumbling down the table,
I still shatter in your palms
As you try to catch me;
Now we’re both bleeding world’s sucking our tongues while the galaxies around us burst open into nothingness
My mouth is a sex fluttering like the butterfly in your belly
It crawls down your abdomen and leaves a word on your thigh
You discover it once the moon dies away-
As the sun ties a knot with Alzheimer’s
There is no light to burn the tips of our desires
But did I ever tell you of the flames hidden in my heart, tucked away in between the day and night?
You come closer
I am the flower out-growing the pot,
I am the pot filling the flower – the singing that eats the lyrics and churns on dead instruments
You come closer
And I’m the shattering and a bloodshed
I’m the demise; in tangent sighs and maroon walls.