Flowing Ink

United States

enjoy my ever-changing existence through this wondrous world of words
she/her
16
wtw's resident quiet kid in the back

Message to Readers

shamelessly taking inpiration from sunny.v's "elegant duaghter of asia." I had this peice under wraps for a long while because I thought it seemed a bit too copy-cat like, but what the heck, I am apparently inspired by genius. feedback is welcome

a flower dug out and put in a flowerpot; beautiful, but never the same

April 5, 2021

FREE WRITING

3

I am the daughter of kicked up dust, sand colored and everywhere/ of impossibly green leaves against the rainy season/ of roads filled to the brim and overflowing with people, shoulder to shoulder, heart to ear/ of gowns dripping with jewels and jewlery with tinkling bells/ of pure white water lilies/ of cumin and chili and cinnamon and cardamom/ of firey smoked biryani and daily prayers/ of hands forever stained with tumeric/ use formal pronouns to your elders dear, tumi is disrespectful/ I am ashamed of the ease english rolls off my tounge/ while my Bangla seems to be coughed up and spit out/a flower ripped up by it's roots existing in a flowerpot.

I am the child of wilted night queens, dead at the first sight of dawn/ of cloth over the head, flowing and hidng my hair/ of early dawns and soft adhans/ of late nights and cresent moons/ of sweets soaked in sugar syrup spiced with elachi/ say Bismillah and wash everything three times, right to left/ of the rising sun over a green feild, a red dot over green/ fresh cut flowers adorning hair, fragrant and delicate/ of decorative henna, skin stained brown and red/ of black kalijira seeds/ of endless fields of rice/ of water, monsoons and floods that call my name in humid summer air/ can this condensation speak from halfway across the world?

I was born in the sticky burning heat of August/ maybe to be close to my homeland, humid and tropical/ Bangladesh, what a tiny thing, so young/ I was a tiny thing too, premature/ mangrove forests, though I've never seen a mangrove tree/ of little market-convenience stores within nieghborhoods holding all our spices, halal meats, imported fish and basmati rice/ yet I'm told they don't hold a candle to an actual bazaar/ poila baisakh, bengali new year's day/ sure there are many of us here, in this land of whitewashed and flavorless oppurtunity/ but is it ever the same as roots ingrained in our blood?





 

Print

See History
  • April 5, 2021 - 11:58pm (Now Viewing)

Login or Signup to provide a comment.

2 Comments
  • JACOB HOUSTON

    Omg this is absolutely marvelous and I love how emotional it is! I really like the title and the lowercase styling, and the piece is just in touch with your heart and it really shows! Amazing job!


    13 days ago
  • anemoia (#words)

    i wish i had time to write a longer comment applauding and marveling at this piece, but i'll just say: you captured the emotions with vivid imagery, and the result is gorgeous.


    15 days ago