wanderer eyes full of
seas of birch branches
easing into banyan roots,
growing down,
the traveler climbs up and down
ancient hills, her heel
on each hard curve as if
she were treading on holy ground.
another journey awaits her,
eager to fill her eyes she
boards the bus bathing in its
own smoke and cinders,
the driver doesn't glance
up or down but asks
fifty-rupees extra at the traveler's voice.
this is a return journey but
fear strikes the traveler
doubt settles
which stop?
she watches sari pleats and patterns
shift and disappear
the driver turns with sympathy
"I cannot stop".
"yes,"
says an elderly woman
"we have our own stops."
so she waits,
the bus inches through traffic
malls crammed with rickshaws,
Uber cars and smirking signs,
she passes grey skeletons of
abandoned flats
pigs suckling plastic at the creek
below the train tracks,
the heat haranguing until
night arrives with the wind.
she thinks of where she is returning,
if I call them, she thinks,
they will be angry.
so she doesn't.
when the bus finally arrives
again at her stop
the trees are snarled and
the path full of darkness. lamplight
sparse, she is terrified of returning.
the wanderer regretted the loss
of dirt beneath her soles,
leaving mountain fog,
the dreams from the rosewood trees.
this return journey,
was it what she wanted,
or did she return to dust?
YOU ARE READING
Shy Anger
PoezieA collection of poems digging into the emotions and experiences that we sometimes try to hide - from love to anxiety to anger and disappointment.
