I learned to make chai before I learned to make sentences
That’s why I write in poetry
So I don’t have to write in sentences
Eyes shy, check
Scarf on, check
but hands still shake as I hand over the rickety tea cup to the mustached boy, gaps in between his teeth pouring out an appraisal in a purr
As if I am his pet and he is my master
From the minute, we are handed a fair and lovely bottle before our own milk bottles
Know that we are living in a fragment
Which leads to a run-on that can’t be erased because it’ll leave black marks on the paper we call your body
Divorce is forbidden
When our contract is brown
And our opinion is silenced
When our lips bleed brown blood
We are forced to leave behind our own self worth in a Ziploc bag underneath our pink pillow
And fill it with a sandwich he can take to work
Leaving behind our own voice in a mason jar on the top shelf our kitchen cabinet
And fill it with the spices needed to make dinner
Leaving behind the dreams we once had scribbled on a piece of paper in our journal under the creaky floorboard of our closet
And fill it with baby formulas and grocery lists
From the minute we escape the womb, we are reminded that we are from a woman who had been with a man to come to this minute Where you must do the same
Brown woman
Skin lightened
Weight lost
Nose sharpened
Turn her around
Dreams hidden
Voice silenced
Worth broken
I learned to make chai before I learned to make sentences
That’s why I write in poetry
because it was more fundamental for me to be the ideal brown woman than write
But
While the sugar sunk
3, 6, 7 seconds
into the milk
I wrote until my hands shook as I handed the man the tea cup
and told him that,
My Ziploc bags are sealed.
My mason jars are closed.
My journal is locked.
My dreams are exposed.
My voice is heightened.
My worth is repaired.
As should every brown woman who has been told her self worth will only be measured when she steps on the balancing scales with a man by her side.
Step on the scale with your dreams,
Your voice,
Your worth.
And it will outweigh any cultural flaw. Any stereotype. Any man.
Nusrat is a Bengali-American born and bred in the Bronx, NY. Her two younger brothers mean the world to her and are the reason for her desire to work with children in the future, particularly orphans and child abuse victims. As an active proponent of poetry, art, and storytelling as ways to raise awareness of issues that plague the oppressed, she hopes to help underprivileged children and young girls through traveling and community service to help them reach their full potential. This poem entitled “a minute,” is in response to all those who told her and tell other young girls that to be a dutiful house-wife is more important than getting an education. But in fact, a book is more valued than a tea-kettle.
“Take what you want//Take everything” reflects on a time with my partner and our cat, Layla. It’s a retelling of the chaotic night I adopted her. I didn’t know why Layla hid from me. When I chased her around, it scared her more. “Take what you want//Take everything” juxtaposes our first night, filled with misunderstanding, with the rest of the time we spent together. My fond memories call back to the loving moments Layla and I shared.
Such memories defined us; they reverberated in my partnership. I wonder if my partner, like Layla, only remembers her fear of me, over our shared moments of love. The title, a Kanye West lyric, is an acknowledgment that their happiness together–without me–destroyed my sense of self. When I see their photos, I wonder if I can see myself reflected in their eyes. I wonder if they still keep kind moments of our time together.
I remember when she would look at me from behind a laundry basket.
A small simple cat with green owl eyes. She was afraid of her new home and its owner. Shit, I remember the night I got her, she hid under my bed, in the middle just out of my reach for maybe 6 hours, watching me. She didn’t eat anything the entire day. When the night fell I was afraid she’d starve or come out and attack me. I was just scared. I didn’t have a childhood pet, I’m not white, I didn’t know what to do. I picked up the whole bed and yelled that she needed to move. I chased her into the closet with a vacuum cleaner. When she ran in, I called my lover and yelled to her that she wasn’t helping enough, she needed to be there to help me. That was our first day together, me and that cat. No one will ever have that memory but me and maybe her.
It was during Ramadan, my first year fasting.
Our problems had already begun by then. Enough so that I decided to fast and show retribution. I’d try to change into a more patient and understanding self. Like the Prophet (SAW) I guess. To become someone that my lover could feel safe around. Somehow, getting a cat felt like it fit into that picture. I’d be a cat dad, you know, gentle. We’d raise her. I’d fast and become New Again. Maybe I’d wrap an inked tasbih around myself and show I’m a man of God.
I don’t know how a cat remembers fear any more than I know how a lover does.
I know her body stored it. My cat’s must have stored it too. That first night, I wish I could tell her that I was afraid too. It doesn’t make sense that I was afraid really — I’m bigger, more threatening. We don’t speak the same language anyway, so how could I ever tell her? She learned to trust me though, in her own way. Her small bean paws would press on my chest in the mornings. She’d meow to berate me for locking her out some nights, or when I was away from home too long.
She lives with my lover now. They share photos with me, they’re happy together.
I saw my lover once, it was on 55th and 7th, Broadway shined blue performance lights over us. She wore a red sacral dress. She said her mental health has never been better. I think she was trying to tell me that she’s doing well, because she knows I care for her. I don’t think she was trying to say she’s happier without me. We don’t speak the same language. I actually think they are happier with just each other. And I loved them both, so it hurts. Sometimes, not all the time. And it doesn’t always hurt that bad. Other times it does get pretty bad, though. I probably owe it to myself to say that.
I look back at the photos, the ones of our life together, and the ones of their new life.
Two green owl eyes, and two brown moonlit eyes. I look for myself in them.
“Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a meditation on the new moon and guilt. I wrote it when I was living in Dallas and was driving back from a dusk prayer. The new moon terrified me on that drive. I was diseased by the knowledge that my partner, at the time, had seen the worst parts of me. There’s immense shame in this piece—it seized my self-image. If the moon could become brand new, then I could start over.
I often ponder on the moon’s reflective nature and pairs of eyes. I’m hyper-fixated on how I am seen by others. Unfortunately, the brilliance of seeing your reflection in another person leads to negativity. After all, those who are too keen on their own reflection are the same people who suffer from it. It is possible to use shame to fuel one’s retribution and personal growth, without becoming consumed by it.
We can look to Shah Rukh Khan succumbing to alcoholism in his own sorrow and then later imbibing his sadness in Chandramukhi. “Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a lesson for us: Don’t be Shah Rukh Khan in Devdas, instead embody pre-incarnation Shah Rukh Khan in Om Shanti Om!
Sometimes when the moon abandons the sky, I wonder if I drove her away.
If she comes back, will she be the same? How I wish she would come back new, truly new! That way she’d have no memory of the sin I’ve confessed to her. You noxious insect. Sin-loving, ego-imbibing pest. You are no monster, for at least a monster has ideology, it sins with purpose. You sin just to chase ignominy.
But the moon won’t say that, she never does. She’ll just leave the sky and return days later, slowly. And I’ll wonder if she’s new, perhaps she won’t remember my past confessions. What does it matter? Were the moon replaced with one from a different god, I’d drive her away, too.
I organize play dates for my children. They’re friendships remind me of when I was younger when Fridays were consistently set aside for my friends. Now, it seems play is indeed meant for childhood and work is for aging adults. We often can’t find time for ourselves, let alone our friends, who are busy working mothers like ourselves. Or we moved into unreachable corners of this globe, far away from any means of physical communication. It’s fair to say, it’s hard to stay close to friends like when we were in college. Nowadays, it’s easier to travel, but more difficult to bond with others. “My Friend” asserts that we should not end let our friendships fall by the wayside. Even with physical distance and conflicting schedules, we keep our friendships close with kind words on phone calls, regular FaceTime calls, or even encouraging social media comments. Friendship doesn’t end once we become adults.
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