Bindi
Red moons now turned steel gray
As a warm up to writing our Masters Dissertation, our Critical Historical Studies workshop required us to bring in an object as well as a short written response to it.
I wrote this little poem about my pack of bindis.
Red moons now turned steel grey
Manufactured silver specks,
like diamonds in the sky
Counting the moons, counting the days,
a record of just how long I’ve stayed
An array -
of discipline, ritual, and obedience
Plops of little droplets of sustenance
Rows and columns -a prisoner’s tally
- 48 days and counting — stars through bars
Collecting sticky traces of where I’d been;
imprints of waxing white worlds.
A new phase, on the same face
A little button that unlocks
the forehead, knowledge and consciousness
like skies and third eyes
A factory of dots past and dots to come,
little droplets like bubbles — pop pop pop
In a distance there no longer lies
-a moon taken before its time
-the frantic birth of chaos in the order,
a virus spreading sheer disorder
Roses creep the white cardboard frame,
to a plastic window- a sheen — now crinkled and wrinkled,
like skin, like Time.
A log of yesterdays and tomorrows locked away,
with much room for cross ventilation.
Yet they don’t escape. They lie in wait.
Lie in wait for the light of day
Manufactured silver specks, like diamonds in the sky
a prisoner’s tally- 48 days and counting
A new phase, on the same face
Red moons now turned steel grey.
It felt great to get back to writing. Oh how I had missed writing poetry!
