Offshore dilemma; On the way back home; Self-love; Lost pages bring out my shadow self

Offshore dilemma 

Storm warnings are nascent on this coastline.
The wind spells chivalry 
a bucket load of gentle caresses
evening deepens further as time chains you
and we begin to keep time,
bathing eternally.

If the modern therapists knew how to douse flames within our communion
If our cult leader could speak without haste
like a true messiah for a change
If you and I could sail away on a sand boat
as each grain replenishes our ride
sneaking, dripping - past our cupped palms 

Would we be good to go on a cruise ship withheld by the calm? 

I know even the earnest pleas of orators are marked by silence
The stillness - dives, into the graveyards when 
afterlife is far closer than the shore
Drown as we may in our primitive affairs
Is it time for a kiss? Say, is it time? 

I've never been to the sea before
never can find a destination from             	

Cauldrons will always bubble when lighthouses 
are made for witch hunting 
As the interrupted light hits our escaping silhouette 
would they murder our sleek figures, destined to die? 

Oh, and I have never seen a storm before!
Not in love off and on the crests of soaring tides
The language we speak is bound to learn an offshore dilemma
of who to kill to save the innocent tribe 

I can kick the water and keep waves at bay
Rather impossible are daily chores near the blue lagoon
Love is made when love ceases to share a family
and we haven't seen all of the dead sea or pools of blood 

A lot has been said of warnings
and trapped lands of islanders.
To free or not to free? 

I like to believe there are only two of us on this coastline.
Others frolic a thousand miles away on
dry beds 
in skyscrapers.
On the way back home

I wept back in September once, 
forgetting when leaves change
and the desert rose finds itself
renewed in the arms of a

I was born to many. Not troubled 
by who I had as a nurturer.
Her milk was sweet enough.
As a suckling
I knew of days when she bothered
not to feed her 
lone self, seldom preparing 
for a night with a polygamous
man, to be humbled by the 
scoured fruit from
the first land, her fevered dreams
unveiled by the sound of 
other's bangles streaming into
her ears. 

Only two miles away, my 
caravan stands in awe of that
sorceress, now a remnant
of the worldly ceiling. 

The night loses a galaxy or two
in the quest of 
finding a way 
for the stars to escape.
They lodge in my iris, 
as I trail away from her. 

I have my mother's fate, not
The child in my arms has me bound –
not for long.
My hands form sepulchres
to entomb the tears of a living 
child about to sleep. I 
am a wombless woman, pregnant 
without a seed, overflowing without
a cup, rained on without the fear of

I am demure in the palms of this child.
He has no sun line showing him our 
destination. They say, when
you have handled things some palms 
grow pathways. Some others lose the 
very compass in their pointed fingers. 

A hymn for him will be sung
across the river far from home. 
He will see me, a figure, 
so deformed by motherly 
desires, facing the other way. 
Where will I go,
his temporary reflection 
in this miraculous place? 

I am almost done holding him.
It must still be September.
Lately, the stars in my eyes have been
questioning their own light.
Buried, someone must be weeping away.

last year the smirk on my face had
lingered more 

my downturned lips were all glossed up
stains within and all over my teacups 

I tried to be proper, when proper did not buy me
cash prize on offer, no I didn't scoff at 

the arson, 

I called it, for my skin started to burn
as I stretched it too thin, and my dimples
lost their charm, 

and I sat, in front of the mirror, trying to bring back lost zeal
today is another hour, the anniversary of smug appeal 

from time to time, I focused on the cupid's bow that protruded
to disappoint natural selection, a primordial soup of self-loathing 

in it withered some lowlifes like me
within all of the dirt, hurts to be the only one in green 

vessels that grasslands summon crickets to fill a room
I am those, I don't speak, only hold my sore smile taut 

the cheeks swell, pulsate and drop, to let my hubris heal 
until I remind myself of nose pickings of a child who has learnt to dig 

what is unearthed remains soiled at the corners of my lips,
in another year, I'll welcome vices before my sad smirk lifts.
Lost pages bring out my shadow self

It's daytime and only one
 	alley is paved with books 
It's two o' clock in my mind
 	to be precise and proper
and the letters on the walls are
            stolen from the inscription of
book thieves; I found a blessed
	figure infusing academia into
streets; I bought from him
	some books and forgeries,
limited editions of lies about 
	the modes of living -- we 
mingled into one silhouette
	and the vapor wrung out
of us and diffused, I may've fazed the
	philosophers in the modern
marketplace, but I forget where reading
           led me that day, I know sudden
dips in understanding are possible
            when the collector clings to
the spineless - almost soft-
            spoken - array of thoughts in
written form. And when the 
            light veers clear from the window
in my reading room, it's 2 pm,
            almost always, and the rest of 
  the day is spent in the arm of
             my shadow: the dark font that
  lifts off of the streets when I
              publish my footsteps to buy two
 dozen eggs and slander lost pages
              that passed by.


Protiti Rasnaha Kamal is a Bangladeshi poet. She has a BA in Neuroscience from Mount Holyoke College, MA, USA.