Can You Pass Me The Salmon?

 

Can you pass me the salmon?

Oh, I don’t eat meat.

 

I want to eat salmon-

Salmon will stay as a

 souvenir in my stomach.

So, I will drool in my sleep – not forever – today.

 

I want you to cook spaghetti -

I wonder, are you pretentious or is it me?

all the germs are jumping with the silent voices -

“I’m hungry! I’m hungry!” raising something-like hands in my stomach.

It seems to carve this for a lifetime, but minutes.

Before I open the packet of biscuit,

Why you noticed my birthmark on the left side?

 

Are you saying that , love is expressed in this way-

finding out insignificant but significant things?

 

“I don’t love you, either!”

Oh! Now you are telling me about your mole.

How someone took notice of your mole and remarked.

I want to break something with my teeth -

 

I would like to mention instances apricots, peanuts-

similar to the impression of me in mind breaking food elegantly;

 

With all the focus on your mole and your phrases.

I will not tell you these cheesy words – There is no meaning of my existence without you.

I will not tell anyone – I am glad to have you in my life.

“I told you earlier, didn’t I?”

“I’m not in love with you.”

And anyone!

 

I wonder,

Why I’m not thinking of my next birth!

Preparing ingredients for penne pasta;

Why is my brain throwing Thai curry to my throat?

“What do you want?” a waiter asked me,

and I’m not asking for either apricots or any curry.

“I would like - would like” my mind is thinking of all the dishes,

like opening every page in a hurry with a little glance to every page.

Every glance serves the taste- not-a-thing was different.

 

“Should I go for my regular food?”

I asked myself with no help from my throat.

In the end, I ignored the waiter, and you ordered.

I’ll not ask myself: why I’m like this?

This is a very repeated question.

I like different; otherwise, what’s the point?

The table color matches my study table color.

It reminds me of – dry flowers. I put in a circle-shaped empty box

... whatever... the empty box to keep a cup of coffee and a glass of water.

I will keep a glass of wine,

but I don’t drink wine.

My desires are struggling -

Once I pluck the two flowers for no one as well as for not myself,

Just for the act of plucking –

 

I put the flowers in the empty box.

Now, they’re dry.

I call them dry flowers as the smell is leaving

or diminishing, or un-living them

like the breath to the body.

Sometimes, I call them dead flowers.

I feel thirsty – I recall my blue-colored water bottle,

I put in that empty box above the sometimes-called dead flowers.

© Amisha

This poem was originally published in The Ornate Circle.