postcolonial carpe diem
Poem by Anjali Hans
Leaning in close, you say it’s now, now, now.
On occasion, you call it seizing the moment,
your mouth smudged wet with its ripeness.
When I sit cross-legged, shut-eyed,
on the frayed straw mat your grandmother
wove ravenous longing into,
I call it being present.
Before me,
fists leaking dust,
dabbing blood with a saree edge,
pooling sweat in a valley,
washing wailing children’s heads,
war cry quivering in poplar trees.
I bring my attention back to the present.
To be rooted, you are first uprooted,
land-body-soul.
To be come, you are first shattered,
us-you-I.
I bring my attention back to the present.
Eternities flow within me.
