Turning 45
I smeared the birthday cake on my face
once for each of the 45 years,
a reminder that I am still alive,
and for each time I thought
I was not good enough,
sweet defiance against myself.
Mid-party, rushing to wash my face,
I enter a train without a ticket,
riding the tracks between childhood
and adulthood to an unknown journey.
At the window, I reach for
passing bougainvillea branches,
trying to hold their vanishing scent,
wishing, in my next life,
to be one of their leaves,
to understand what it means to bloom.
Still on this train of dreams,
I stand between two open doors,
one with eyes closed in agony,
the other wide open with love for life.
I sang a birthday song for myself
amidst a chorus of crows
and the cooing of doves,
a chorus of childhood
pressed in my throat.
At the platform,
the scent of warm cookies
from a basket of faded memories
drifts through the air.
The feast continues in silence
as the station master accepts
my sincere apologies
for being ticketless,
childless,
and a woman.
I lean back into the seat,
like wind resting
among bougainvillea leaves.
Unspoken
Waking with a book
and a used toothbrush in hand,
a middle-aged woman
asks to borrow my clothes.
We sleep together,
as beans in a sealed can.
Still unaware of our names,
we scratch an address
onto fractured bones
left behind by the earthquake.
Then she leaves without a word.
I close my eyes,
listening for her voice
spoken through mine.
Our voices merged into one.
I could not tell
where hers began
and mine ended.
Our love, silent as spring rain
In the morning, I tore through
our photo,
into the silence of our silhouette,
making room for new silences to grow.
Hours later,
I searched inside the drawers
for unwritten love letters.
Found no fingerprints of you.
After a few hours,
I searched every corner of the house
for your breath,
found no imprints of you.
Perhaps you left home
before I arrived,
already mourning
the loss of your beloved.
I shall switch off the lights,
come through the backyard,
walking on dying embers.
Hang your coat
on the clothesline
next to mine.
Tombs with Golden Engravings
Nameless, orphaned children
who laugh out loud
when someone tells them
their father is missing.
Their laughter,
as infectious
as birthday balloons.
For them,
Father is as good as
a smoke
no one knows
where it comes from.
They bite into
ragged fabric,
sitting on abandoned chairs,
peering through cracked windows
of the houses
where their mothers once worked.
“They are fine, they are fine,”
says the society guard
who chased their mothers
out of posh neighborhoods
for having nightmares,
pointing to reports
where meals for the poor
are fairly distributed
on paper.
About the Author
Laila Brahmbhatt is a writer with roots in Kashmir and Jharkhand, India. She currently lives and works in New York as a senior consultant. Her poetry has appeared in newspapers and journals including The Madras Courier, NII Journal, The Wise Owl, Poetry Catalog, Borderless Journal, Poems India, and Kashmir Pen. Her haiku has been published in several magazines, with work forthcoming in Modern Haiku.
