N95, At the dog park, Traces I, Traces II
Poems by Tanima
N95
Nowadays going out is an itch on my nose
I can't scratch. Temporarily safe
from pollution, plague, and pleasantries
with strangers even more optional
and misunderstood than before. Hug
a whole pumpkin close, shake my head no
to do I need a bag or help, lug
it home. Can be anonymous
and crazy like that, sobbing publicly
at a podcast in which everyone jokes
about the end, and no one
in the market can tell who it is belting
the wrong verses of bella ciao
out of breath, but very enthusiastically.
At the dog park
—For Nida
Two dogs scatter
in the wind and run circles
around a woman who scratches
behind their ears. She throws,
they fetch. One digs up new
crocus shoots — Felix, no! Good boy.
Casper, come back! — when the other
strays too close to the kids
on the swings. A tender chaos.
From our park bench
life seems to be happening
elsewhere: a spray of sun
there, the leap for a treat,
wet noses bounding along
grass. My face suddenly
tight with tears, seeing how
much she'll miss them when
they're dead. How light slivers,
pulses, blurs with clairvoyant signs
and she must be warned
it will be soon. Casper sits
panting at her feet and Felix sniffs
a hedge until a young couple
approaches with briefcase
and grocery bags; now tails come flying
into fond laughter, their familiar
faces are licked and licked. The dog walker
packs up treats and ball, clips
leashes to collars, a final
pat. Waves as tangle of
dogs lead the couple home.
You have been holding the clenched
fist of my hand all along. Maybe
it wasn't a vision of death,
you say. You only foresaw
the goodbye. Tomorrow
she will walk the dogs again.
Traces I
Because cloth was left over
after the tailor finished
your handloom shirt, I sewed
it into a cushion cover.
You lie on my
chair, smiling
in ikkat when I am sad
and difficult to love.
Should make a patchwork quilt
with discards from friends
next, so they can inhabit
my nights, my days.
Won’t have to pick up
the phone, answer the email
from months ago to admit
I eat in bed, can’t do a push-up.
Let strangers enter
my bedroom as second-hand
curtains, lamps, and book
-ends of decorative witness.
What’s an Instagram story
to the pure access
of furniture to the small
details of a life?
I’d sniff the carpet,
caress the damp
pillowcase, let my elbows
kiss the tablecloth.
You’d soon be crowded
out by hand-me-down
coasters, teapot, vase — my home
peopled with so many traces.
Traces II
I’ve read my Marx, know actually
the tailor’s in your blue shirt,
weaver in both shirt’s cloth
and matching cushion cover.
The latter I sewed, so there
in part’s my smiling ikkat
face, not yours that left wearing
blood, sweat, and skill of others.
I tell my friends
our lives are not
our own and must redistribute
the wealth we hoard.
They tolerate my lectures
over beignets and artisanal
coffee, it won’t be easy,
not even the revolution.
The strangers that live
in my home — farmer, potter,
assembly line worker,
mason — roll their eyes at me.
I know nothing of how much
or little they were paid for
the basmati rice, terracotta mask,
24 inch iMac, this roof above.
Should rest my palm on the Ikea
table in case it whispers
its maker’s name, what makes
them seethe, their favourite song.
Instead I hold the cushion cover
close, wonder who the weaver
loved and lost while she stretched
indigo warp on her loom.
Straddling Chicago and Delhi, Tanima writes poetry, makes theatre, and sometimes works on a PhD. Previous and forthcoming writing can be found in Soundzine, Rise Up Review, Stone Poetry Quarterly, The Passionfruit Review, Sky Island Journal, Rogue Agent Journal, and Indent: The Body and the Performative.