You don’t need anything, you say
You always brush me aside when I ask
So I decided to will you my own will
A will that is made of the potent residue
That stays after our anatomy is distilled
So here it is Papa, a few non-gifts
from me, condensed into a will
Bite-sized and neatly labeled like
on square pillboxes; no excuses.
My name, which you had found for me
When I squealed, an ugly tadpole, on a wintry night in
The shadows of a hill town, birthed by a stern spectacle in white coats
I will to your immaculately starched self-control, as you stood in your uniform all night
Uncharacteristic, yet in duteous adherence to the doctor’s instructions.
My equivalence, which you fed beaten into curd and sugar, for good luck
When I wept, in fear of my own fluttering heart, shrugging away silences
Unshackling my shyness into a voice that unfolded, glistening on stage and board rooms
I will to your open-ended questions, sharply reflecting answers on rhythmic shine
of brown wingtips on your brogues, with each step, you marched thunder into my path.
My notebooks, all the unused ones I have gathered and inscribed with a
Date, place, and name for wherever they happened to have found me
At book holes, train stations, airports, friendships, tchotchkes, pick-me up’s
I will to those extraordinary situations when you find the exact impeccable word
As it situates itself, arms folded across your chest; feet crossed, left shaking slightly
My broken sentences, that you have called poems and I believed you. Until
I realized they were not, a poem has a method, and mine were just pieces and
parts I found lurking in corners of me, weeds that exited cracks of my masonry
I will to stories once pinned to the crest medal bar of your glorious years
Irreplaceable stories, that must be salvaged into steaming pots of evening stews
@copyright kashiana
