Words are the dancers.
I saw a pigeon eating rice my mother left on the table.
Last night we dined like a royal family
hiding our secrets under our plates.
Mother took out a knife
and cut all the apples.
No one saw the blood
until it was time to drink.

Words are the dancers.
I kept repeating as I chew on those pieces of apples.
Words are the only thing that can dance.
My memory reverberates my performance.
My last performance.
You know she is a dancer.
She dances like a prostitute at the brothel.
I slid money under my saree.
It was important.

Words are the dancers.
This therapy room looks like my home.
On corner there is pot
and artificial flowers.
The origami ones.
I fold paper on my desk and make a frog.
I run opposite to my aim.
Always.
Line breaks are important, I assure myself
while my therapist
(who carries lotus in her pockets)
asks for answers.

Did you draw the sheet?
Which sheet?
Do it now.
Which sheet?
I unfold the frog and make a list.
The sheet.

Box no. 1
All the people I love
(Abandon)
Box no. 2
All the places I would visit
(Lost)
Box no. 3
Things I like(d) doing
(Blank)
Box no. 4
Is there more?

I drew the sheet.
It looks pale
like pieces of apple on the dining table.
Words are the dancers.
So I fold the sheet and make a frog.
His legs have Venice.
His skin carries your name.
His mouth contains the word writing.
On the bottom there is a blank box no 4.
(You took me to the Venice
when I wrote you a poem).

Words are the dancers.
My mother slides apple pieces under the table
as I fill the box no 4.
There are no cars in Venice.
Mother,
people travel by boats.
So you swim across the room
carrying a scissor
cutting apples into boats.
We can rescue ourselves
one more time
if we dance again.
But will we?

Words are the dancers.
I will dance mother,
till the floor shatters into millions of poems
I wrote after you left me alone.
Till the air is filled with words
and I will catch some
to fill the blank space.
If therapies cure me,
you can escape.

Words are the dancers.
I repeat as I sway my arms into the air.
A poem dies under my trembling feet
and I look forward to another therapy.

©Sameera Mansuri 2020