Eight years ago, I ferried across the mossy
Greens of blues loony, dreaming of escape,
I wore dread red lipstick, tightened my
Appetite from much to most;
Of literature I knew something, so I wrote
Fabled blossom-hearted nothingness,
Mysterious with pain hidden from their eyes,
As they crawled under my skin, saying who are you?
A ghost walked by in Newton Park, western winds howling
In eastern agony, bricked with bonded labour,
The rapists hurried away, unsuccessfully, with my right ankle
Lost in the abyss of migratorial silence, who could I tell?
Everything was so fast back then, before I owned a radio,
And Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb didn’t come to check up on
My little body that wriggled under the weight of eyelids…
I summoned nerve-wrecked
Poetry to find itself in me, as syllables and rhymes
Tethered around in akathisiacal mooniness…
I slept on public benches- night after night thinking
Of you, as you lay your arms around someone else.
Listen, you, listen,
Remember I too could smile through pain,
When I didn’t know your caste,
Your language, your capitalist father’s burgundy furniture,
When I didn’t know you and me,
And you said you loved me.
Sana Janjua is an emerging poet and playwright. She is a founding member and President of Surrey Muse, an interdisciplinary art and literature group.