walking through the glass doors

the confessions have yet to come
for i have no soul
no goddamn soul to rake the ashes
for i fear the fire will kindle again
and burn all
exhume the possibility of a rare moment
a moment where i shall be in peace yet again, when i will walk unfazed

for long i have been in denial
seeing not what lay before me
overlooking perhaps

i cry over the lost world
shed many in its passing
for that which is gone
will never return
on closed doors
i knock, pound and knock yet again
i pause
consider, think of the rights and the wrongs of the past
all behind the shut doors
do i dare confront them
the lies, twisted truths
the betreyals, stories of passion, pain of goodbyes
the naked truth
the ugly reality
oh, how long shall i squirm in my seat
how long will i delay the admittance

the fire burns
hot embers, red and orange
it is an angry fire
eager to burn

it spreads
it is wild too like me
it invites me to step into it
i hesitate
but it spreads
like i don't matter
i will have to pass throrugh it
i am in the purgatory

long i have borne the illnesss
like cancer it spread
now i must burn it
and burn my skin, my soul with it

yes, it hurt then
a year later, i am still inching toward sanity
long i have kept a face
denying the pain, proclaiming it did not matter at all
so long the smile started to hurt

now, when i see the 'other' in your life
it feels like a scorpion sting
the poison spreading
and i become angry

but they say
with anger comes the confession
the strength to walk through the glass doors, beyond it
where the grass grows tall
i had been trapped within those
not seeing them, always yearning for what lay on the other side
my past

and i shed a tear, just one
for that lost world
as i glance back at what burns behind those glass doors
and i walk

in the land of abundance...

My beautiful Africa, my land, my fields
the mud walls of my hut
the lantern in there, the shadows on the wall of my people
the smell of the familiar cooking
rice and meat and vegetables
ah, the maize too
delicious, he says

the mattress here hurts
the lights, the comforts
he would turn them in for home
He does not understand America
they pass by him
never acknowledge him
the white men, women
they smoke together, they go out together
they never ask him
he smokes by himself thinking of home
how they all shared stories
and cigarettes too

this is different
so different it confuses him
he does not how to behave
they tell him, no advise him
smile always, say thank you always
and ask "how are you?" always, to anyone on the street
weird, he thinks

can't go back, he says aloud
so that he can hear it too
but this is not home, he says in a meek voice
lest they call him ungrateful
for all the mercy they showed in the promised land

he eats well here
but he does not relish the taste
at the stores, he sees big eggplants, big onions
abundance is America, he feels
by the dumpster, he sees them throwing away doughnuts, pizzas, everything
he could feed so many back home with all that
can he just take them home?
no, they tell him
they can't, the law does not permit them
he argues
i will eat them, it will be dinner for me, my children, my neighbors
they cost so much, i can't afford them with my minimum wages
no, no, they repeat
what if you sue us? what if this food is bad?
no, it looks fine
don't throw it
i starved for many days
i drank urine, chewed leaves
on the way to kenya
they throw it nonetheless

he gasps
can he redeem them from the garbage after they leave?
yes, of course, the heart cries out
the mind says...no, don't
In America they don't do it
they would call you uncivilized if you did

and he walks away
with a heavy heart, with a guilty mind
my people there
oh, i know how they survive
so many have never tasted a doughnut
never dug their teeth into the cheesy layers of the pizza
wonder what they would say

the flashes

it comes in flashes
it is there now
no, it's gone
and I wait
it comes again
there it is, hazy, voices muffled

while i am driving or cooking or looking out of the window
i steer the wheel too much, skip red lights, even hit the curb
the tea boils over staining the stove
while i try to hold on to the glimpse just one more second
it's precious, but it's fleeting
never stays

and i wait by the window
for it to show me who i am
long hours go by
and i devour the smells, all i can
to force the moment
but no...it doesn't come

i boarded the train from patna, then a flight to America
hoping for nothing, yet desiring so much
i slept the whole journey, waking up in my dreams
oh, they were manufactured dreams
ready-made perhaps
I had woven in my memories, experiences, scents, sights and all
all I could pack in
all that would remain
there was the lemon tree, the orange flowers on the vine
the flower pots on the old window sill
my aunt's bed that smelt of IODEX and balms
so soothing

and so much more
i did not want to lose them all
so I stored them
visiting them quietly
so they remain pristine
uncorrupted by the new