written by: Ipsita Banerjee
You said my lines were morbid
the lines on the palms of my hands,
the frown that lined my face
the lines that lined my verse
and I would never amount to much.
I never meant to be morbid
I only wanted to be the lake
reflecting the trees on the other bank
the ivy laden walls quavering
on my clear palette of water
where I dipped a finger
to create a ripple of laughter
that echoed to the other side
and swam back to me
in concentric circles.
Circles that circle me now
as I take a deep breath
and reach for the benthos
into abyssal depths I cannot reach
Maybe I was morbid then.
Maybe I still am, even with
those uneven lines of birds in flight
the curls of the palm leaves
as they lean into the water
to alight on a lake lit only by the past.
The shade of the bougainvillea my refuge
where I still hide ‘neath the branches
and lie still: pretending
I cannot hear you announce
I never would amount to much.
I remember crawling into the duck house
pretending you could not see me
and there among the smell of shit and feathers
I found my soul would never heal.
Yes, I was morbid then.
Morbid and bound to my apathy
floating in the water, ears submerged
listening to the vacuum
that converts cacophony to peace
willing myself to float away
Yes, you could say I am morbid still
but the lines I have drawn in my life
lead me to un-dead ends winding away from you
I never can amount to much.