origins of a feathered, burning, formerly good insomniac

Posted: June 2, 2019 in Uncategorized, writings
Tags: , , , , , ,
1

image: via pinterest

I am from a loud place
of many small things
old things, old furies, old
hands saying stop.

I am from feathers angelic
of the flying kind, yet I’m
grounded, only the heart aerial
never carrying me away from
me. A homing pigeon, it returns
from far-flung places, telling me
stories in flutters, and feathers
fall all over me like promises,
maybe consolations.

I am from coffee, diluted
with milk to make me drink
milk, nurturing instead an
insomniac, a night owl who
burns like the stars and holds
in her veins the seduction of
the moon, dark and cold
moon with pause, of disquiet.

I am from pages torn, balled,
and burned. A bonfire that reduced
me to ashes. I rise again, the ashes
they cling, never am I free of
ashes. Burn child burn.

I am from no-nos. Don’t do this.
Don’t do that. Good girls are made
not born. Be a good girl. That’s like
a good girl. A good girl was forced
under my skin. I said my good byes,
she peers out at me now and again.

© Anuradha Prasad 2019

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