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Honking Cars and Mighty Scars

by Tooba Ayesha
(Patna, India)

Honking cars and mighty scars
By Tooba Ayesha

Ringlets in fingers, dripping down the wrist
Forming the map, locating the site
Alleys and turns and
All plotted neat and red.

The burn on the hand
The burn on the life
Benumbing her and her strife.
The world at stake
Deep fried, submerged in oil
Along with the chicken
Crisp and brittle,
Breakable in one go.

Amidst the interlocked cars
The baby hops from the embrace
And dives in the hot cauldron
At the street booth,
And following the baby
Dived her hand.
The mother's.

Old head on Old shoulders
By Tooba Ayesha

Ripe, old and doddering
A longevous species
Possessing a hundred year account.
The ruptured mole enmeshing
The history
Along with her hoary head profound.

An enigma she is
Or perhaps appears to be one.
A woman, old and senile
Her talks, claimed abyss.
Trust not her actions neither her words-
An antiquated juvenile.

(The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.)

The Book
By Tooba Ayesha

Revisit when I am old,
Sold, and untold.
The way you visit an old photo album.

Handle me with care
Protect me with a thin sheet of cellophane
to guard me against dust, rust or gust,
Stain, rain or pain.

Parting my sheets,
Scent redolent of past
Inhale my words and get doped.
Cling to the mast.
But do not reach the shore,
Abhor or aghast.


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