poem
By Mansi Dahal
every time i read a poem and it’s not about dashain
barely seeds begin to sprout in my gut.
lemon green. what makes a heart
angry? swollen veins stretch
in aama’s thighs. the heels of her palms push
the sticky dough into rasbari. feeding
a goat wheat bran before slaughter is common
during dashain. but i don’t miss blood
or men flying kites. don’t tell
the god of rain to stop pouring.
the rice fields do not need more water. but i do
not want this to be a poem. i want this to be angry.
so let me start again. every time i read a poem
and it’s not about the sliced green
branches of the tall bamboo swings tightened
over and over with the prickly jute ropes
the holy water in the kalash dries. pages
of the calendar flip backward. it’s 2015.
october 22nd is circled in red. i don’t know
what it’s like to be abroad and not find a poem
about dashain. one where the ting ting of brass bells.
the smell of sandalwood. the vapor rising
from milk that aama’s watching. abbu’s on the sofa
waiting for his chiya. but this anger is not about chiya.
i’ve shown enough of that. this is about the absence
of a poem. there’s no metaphor here. no simile.
no paradox because i don’t have time for that.
i just want a poem about a girl missing home
during dashain. and the poem needs to be written. now
i am reading a poem and it’s about dashain.
