Anuradha Vijayakrishnan, United Arab Emirates-India
Fear 101
There is much you can do. Sip warm water stirred with lemon, worry, swallow
pills and promises, trust what you read, worry. Sip warm water, now tepid.
You can watch from a secret window. Check if neighbours have barred
windows or drawn black curtains over doors. Or if that is a dead cat in their dead
garden. Meanwhile your skin will flake and peel where you have rubbed snake oil
mixed with spices. You will listen to your breath counting backwards, measure with your palm
how little air you need. Gather words from every passing voice and string them into lucky
charms. Hide your mouth, pretend to speak. You will not speak.
There are things you can do – cut, chop, boil, weed, clean, walk five thousand steps
before sunset, pull out what you planted because you cannot watch them die, plant
again because what else can you do.
You can lean out for a moment – startle
foolish sparrows – for a moment breathe
without fear. Whistle. Laugh. You can do that again.
How we greet trees
We look upward with closed eyes. Allow birds and leaves
to speak
first. Let sunbeams trace our worn necks, weary
spines
with green fingers. We stay quiet but our eyes
shine
closed. We dapple with light, raise lonely
hands
to the grand canopy. The trees remain unmoved
except to bend slightly
to wind. Occasional spirit whistle call of breath from
within—root
throb of gnarled soil—startled shiver of dew dropping
from high
on our lashes. We sink into old moss, fallen leaves, pools
of yesterday’s fallen
moonshine. Make ritual love on moist earth, bury
ourselves in faith.
Pagan
I am called forest. Sometimes I sweep across
mountains in landslides of mud froth and silver pebble.
I do not respect your borders. I am the giant axe that
cuts down your cities
tsunami that washes away your tall
wrongs. Blood of dead animals runs in my veins.
I sing, sing all the time. Sometimes it is koel, sometimes
shy cicada. Listen if you would like to hear.
I am the ululation chorusing from trees, dying wail of hunted
antelope. I am birdcall and crescent moon.
Sand you crumble into, red dawn and rainbow.
I am the apocalypse you fear, endless labyrinth
you live in.
Anuradha Vijayakrishnan is a writer and business professional living in Dubai. Her poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Magma, Guftugu, The Lake and The Chakkar. She is the author of a novel, Seeing the girl, (LiFi Publications) and a poetry collection, The Who-am-I-Bird (Bombaykala Books). Her work has been featured in several anthologies and translated into Italian, Chinese and Arabic (Dar Al Muheet, UAE).