bindaspoems-blog

[bindaspoems-blog]

Naturopathy

The beauty is: my nephew’s name is the same as my father’s. My father’s skin can be seen in the golden hues of our summer kissed hides. Summer is the time that I most remember my father’s warm laugh. Laughter comes easier for some but so too do tears. Tears of recollection stream down my aunt’s lips as she tells me of the time she spent Thanksgiving alone with her brother. My brother is my father’s adopted son. His son talks of his adopted grandpa’s black hand. The black hand is a game that my grandpa taught to his son. His son plays that game with his daughter. His daughter’s brother plays this with his 8-month-old son. The son has the same name as his father’s father.

 Healing is a tribe of wild horses-

who were broken-then released-but forgot they were once free.  

[bindaspoems-blog]

Dehydration

Some things are meant to undo you. Some things are meant to be undone. If only you could have held tighter, you would have been the one- to be let go, to tie together, to fish bones from the sea. You had only a moment. Now the moment is done.

I remember a hand. It was my favorite hand in the world. I had closed my fingers around its own so many times before that they felt like a part of my skin; we were the same temperature. I used to fall asleep with this hand wrapped around my own. I convinced myself every night that if I could manage to hold tight then it would be there in the morning. It never was. 

Ashes float through snow peaked mountains, down glacial rivers, and beneath a Scottish temple tree. As rivers build current and drain into oceans, memories sink beneath the shore. They call out from below- a siren song. They beg to be held. They want to taste your flesh. They want to drown you in their beauty. If you listen, they will reach out their paws and you will follow short. Only cold can be felt from so far beneath the sun. But sometimes, you want to go under. You want to sink. You want to lose sight of the shore. And you smile when it’s done.

[bindaspoems-blog]

Hypothermia

The kind of cold that sneaks up from behind, tracing your steps, waiting to pounce. It lingers even after the shivering subsides. The sky rains, the rain pours down your face, and you like it. You like the wildness of it. The way it makes you feel is wild. Lifting your face to the sky, you stretch out your tongue. Desperate. Wild is a feeling-no, a tangible energy that can be harnessed: raw freedom. But now you are drenched, and you must fight to keep warm. You miss the taste on your mouth, your skin. You find shelter from the rain. Taking off your clothes, you realize warmth is not a product of freedom. Warmth only materializes for those who walk the yellow brick road and who find within themselves their own inner heat to keep from wilting from the inside out.

Clothes scatter aimlessly around. Even naked, heat does not stick to skin. Your skin cells are made of solid ice now. Bare. You feel them weighing you down, down till the ice is the only thing between skin and stone. No longer do you shiver, no longer do you feel, and no longer do you desire heat. You are fully caught now, caught in the cold or caught to it. The ice becomes your blood, sinews, toes, tendons, muscles, bones, heart. Only your brain remains. Encaged in ice, the brain lies cold and functioning. Like being underwater, you only hear a sliver of what you once heard before. Unlike being underwater, you will never know what lies above the surface. The surface now dances with ice. The dark is the music that feeds it. Your mind is what keeps it afloat. And your heart is what taught it how.

[bindaspoems-blog]

Hummingbird Song

Remember, “stay on topic.”

I used to sing in my dreams. I was a siren, calling out to sailors in their sleeping dens, sinking dens, floating coffins. My dad never had a coffin, his life would not have fit inside. So people wear him like clothing, bleed him from their veins, and nourish him in life. He too sits on the bottom of the sea.

Stay on topic- 

I would often stand, digging the palms of my toes into the sand, above the waves and sing. I would sing of fate and beauty. I would feel my fate as I stood. The knowledge that I was where I was meant to be swept me over like a current, dragging me under. The beauty of such knowledge can only be expressed through song. But when I was near the ocean, the lake, the river, the stream- words flew through me without intention, creation. I was a mute creature inside the world. Nothing could shake me. I’ve never felt so strong, as by the sea with my father.

Now, as I return to my lake, I recall how his ashes melted into the current, drawn beneath the shore.

Stay on topic-

If you listen to the trees, and I mean truly listen, you might be able to interpret their speech, their song. They have been on this planet for billions of years, how is it that only humans have learned to communicate and not nature? What makes humankind so special? My dad would often speak of such things. He taught me to never underestimate the knowledge of the world or the world may underestimate me.

If the water song is fate than the tree song is wisdom.

Birds would often trap themselves below our cabin. We were never allowed to touch the babies, their moms don’t trust humans, my dad would say. One day, a hummingbird locked itself underground. Hummingbirds, when too frightened, can die of terror. Their small hearts will burst. Folding his hands around its powerful wings to stop them from beating out of control, my father was able to gain its trust. This was the first time that I have ever seen a hummingbird up close; the power in its petite wings and the fragility of its heart struck me then.

When my dad died, I felt as the hummingbird- trapped underground, waiting for my heart to explode and hating the strength in my body. The hummingbird song is spirit.

Remember, stay on topic-

[bindaspoems-blog]

Hmm, wonder why all these people point flashing boxes at me?

[bindaspoems-blog]

How to Be Happy.

Smile. Not because you feel like it but because you should.

Breathe. Not because you have a choice but because being alive is the first step to finding peace.

Be happy. Not because you desire to be but because successful people are.

Be happy because you are supposed to be.

Be happy to placate your grandma’s friend and your professor and your high school counselor.

Be happy so you do not cause trouble for the people around you.

Be happy so that you can be normal.

Be happy so that you can get a good job and find a good husband.

Don’t be happy so that you may never need any of these things.

Don’t be happy so that you may one day realize that your happiness is dependent on your inability to be normal.

Don’t be happy so that you can finally breathe without feeling your lungs are burnt to coal and your voice has shrunk so far in your belly that you choke on your words.

Don’t be happy so that you can sleep in without feeling the anxiety of missing out on possible productive endeavors and smile knowing that you are happier because of it.

Don’t be happy so that you can love those who are none of these things with the inherent knowledge that their happiness is enough to congratulate them on.

It is worth more than any grade, career,  salary, or degree.

Be happy because you are worth it.

[bindaspoems-blog]

What to Wear in Spring

I wear dark lines over my eyes

they are waterproof for when i cry

they stand their ground

like my mother did when my father died

I wear colors on my lips

every shade for every blade

of ice that cut me blue to pink

that mistook me for canvas

that painted me back

I wear circles in my nose

a loop for every one i walked

pretending the words were socks

put one on and take one off

I wear jeans with seams.

my thighs like to lie

together and break apart

seams can’t keep art

from stealing marks

I wear a low-cut hanging blouse

nothing seems to fill them

my insides are more fragile than my breasts

but no one seems to see them

I wear rings upon each finger

decorating my body with ribbons

to shed and layer

with the seasons, each spring

a new circle to encompass me

I wear tattoos on skin that bled

the blood was dark and wet

the design spread instead

a bed of needles in my head

I wear a bra thats made of lace

black is the only color I can bare

the color of night and day

my skin casts shadows

waiting for the light to fall away

I wear underwear for those who look

at me the way my mother did

when I was born and she cried

a full end for a full beginning

a bed of needles in my head

I wear my skin like a glove

like a mask, i change shape

my mouth can bleed

my breasts are bare

my hair is cut

my skin can peel

after burn

my skin has a layer for every day

the burned ones flake

off into the ice. but the new

they are shaved naked

light like the mountain

in an avalanche

white

[bindaspoems-blog]

when a camel yawns.