non-gifts

You don’t need anything, you say
You always brush me aside when I ask
So I decided to will you my own will

A will that is made of the potent residue

That stays after our anatomy is distilled

So here it is Papa, a few non-gifts

from me, condensed into a will

Bite-sized and neatly labeled like

on square pillboxes; no excuses.

 

My name, which you had found for me
When I squealed, an ugly tadpole, on a wintry night in

The shadows of a hill town, birthed by a stern spectacle in white coats

I will to your immaculately starched self-control, as you stood in your uniform all night

Uncharacteristic, yet in duteous adherence to the doctor’s instructions.

 

My equivalence, which you fed beaten into curd and sugar, for good luck
When I wept, in fear of my own fluttering heart, shrugging away silences

Unshackling my shyness into a voice that unfolded, glistening on stage and board rooms

I will to your open-ended questions, sharply reflecting answers on rhythmic shine

of brown wingtips on your brogues, with each step, you marched thunder into my path.

 

My notebooks, all the unused ones I have gathered and inscribed with a
Date, place, and name for wherever they happened to have found me

At book holes, train stations, airports, friendships, tchotchkes, pick-me up’s

I will to those extraordinary situations when you find the exact impeccable word

As it situates itself, arms folded across your chest; feet crossed, left shaking slightly

 

My broken sentences, that you have called poems and I believed you. Until
I realized they were not, a poem has a method, and mine were just pieces and
parts I found lurking in corners of me, weeds that exited cracks of my masonry

I will to stories once pinned to the crest medal bar of your glorious years

Irreplaceable stories, that must be salvaged into steaming pots of evening stews

 

 

@copyright kashiana