Lesson 51
My face is coated with the spice from lunchI thoughtlessly spread with my fingers,
and my sweat only increases the surface area
it coats. The heat of the evening sun adds to
this tension. I wipe it with cloth.
With a handkerchief. But nothing helps.
I try to sit still. I try to escape into thought,
through the manifold meditative ways
my mother’s taught me. Nothing really helps.
I sit, aching. I feel frantic. I feel alive.
Too much talk has been spat about how
being alive is something grand. It’s not.
Being alive is the million ways in which
the body rebels having been born, which is
aches and irritations. Everything
that’s scratchy and does not quite fit right.
This is what being alive is. I don’t hate it,
nor love it. It’s just a thing that’s there.
Like the wind, the soil, or the sound
of the city devolving into chaos since
it’s time for the offices to be let out.
I sit here and sweat. Just being alive.
Poetry by Sameen
Read 17 times
Written on 2024-11-24 at 05:38
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