Poetry by Sogol Sur
Maybe it’s Eliot’s fault
All Wednesdays feel ashy to me now
feel ashy? More like
a bucket of ash – my mother’s and my desires
poured over my head, my eyes
become tears. The ashes itch and blind
me. I see ash, feel ash, breathe ash
everywhere I look has been tarnished
by ash. But what am I claiming?
I cannot look
I cannot see
I am blinded by
Ash. Soft grey yet
detrimental to my health
I try to vociferate as
ash fills my mouth and I
fight to breathe.
Fight? Another lie
Why do I pretend to be strong when
all it takes to transform me into flames and consequently
ashes is just a word. A dart-shaped word.
Why do people plan so hard to harass me when
I am made of porcelain; all it takes
is for a breeze to push me a little hard
I fall from my comfortable table and
shatter. Never to be mended
Shards of sharp ceramic mixed with soft ash
my kohl black blood is a stream of bullets raining
from the ash sky of Wednesdays
Did he mean the religious matter?
I do not care. I listen to him bleed and I
let the sense of doom and despair swallow me
for there is nothing again and
it dawns on me that I do not desire
to exist on Wednesdays.