Three Poems

Poetry
Bobbi Sinha-Morey


Photo Credit: Joey Hamidon/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

Photo Credit: Joey Hamidon/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

 

The Faint Scent Of Lemon

My father sits on the porch
smoking his weed, his skin clean
as the morning with the faint scent
of lemon. Brownies beside him,
walnuts and pork rind. He seldom
shows love; doesn’t know how.
If he puts his arm around you it’s
a bear hug, rough-tongued but milky
and salty too. Mostly he is alone,
living out here by himself, keeping
the sharp sting of his solitary labors
hidden, constantly eating even though
he’s so skinny. He’s like a cloved
orange shut inside a drawer with all
the spikes turned inwards except for
a few rare moments, when everything
comes together. Silent prayer is too
much of an effort for him and he wears
the past like a noose of lead around
his neck. I wish I could untie it for him.
The slim envelope of his soul flaps
over his head, and I wish I didn’t have
to see him wither away. One night on
Thursday, at ten p.m., the door of my
room opened on its own, a gust of
energy coming in, and I knew he had
died. It was him.

 

Without A Home

Without a home and my
nine-month-old baby brother
born in a shed, I wake after
sleeping under the trees,
my hair in tangles and twigs,
me covered in gooseflesh.
These eyes roam the forest
in memory, where I’ve had
to live with my small family.
I sit there shivering, scraps
from a church luncheon on
a paper plate, eaten in agonizing
crumbs by a fate I’d never thought
we’d see. The coldness of the wet
winter weather, rain puddles
collecting a glassy sage soup.
I eat this limpid air, wishing
there were a god to lift us away
from here. On days when you
don’t see the shy, mild sun
we live in the earthly twilight,
a darkness that lasts.

 

Boulder, Utah

Far away from my home—
fireflies on a dusk lawn,
and sunset ambling through
the pines, I’m now alone with
two of my friends stranded in
a dry land with only peelu to
chew on, a plant pleasant enough
to taste, to provide water while
we walk miles each day in the sun.
By night we huddle closely for
warmth trying to sleep on flat rock.
At times like this I dream of the
orange heads of California poppies
glowing like small fires in the under-
brush. In the day, after Lucy has
caught a fish in the river, each one
of  us try to make fire with two pieces
of rock. Me with no survival skills
feel my arms growing tired, not wanting
to give up, then I hear other voices float
in like a wave on the shore telling me
to try just a little bit more. Soon a little
smoking bird’s nest grew and the fire
rose higher when I gently whispered
into it with my breath. We ate dinner
that night, swam in the river, a cooler
light on our skin, a peaceful moon
folding us in.

pencilBobbi Sinha-Morey‘s poetry has appeared in a variety of places such as Plainsongs, Taproot Literary Review, The Path, Orbis, The Laughing Dog, and Knot Magazine, among others. Her books of poetry are available at Write Words, Inc. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net. Email: isedmorey1[at]aol.com

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