Sanjana Nair
Two Poems
Traveling
Might we just go—abandon
the abandoned pavement of Brooklyn,
hop in a cab, make small talk with the driver
commiserate with him, over his daughter in college,
the fees. She’s the first he says proudly
and just like that, his late shifts shine,
medals on the returning hero’s uniform.
In the airport, we’ll lounge on chairs
without thinking who has been there,
capture children in our arms
as confounded parents trail behind,
terrified, out of breath.
We’ll exchange small talk—
they will offer to buy us a round,
and we’ll round ourselves at a table.
You know, they will say, remember what it was
when being this close felt like asking to die?
We will laugh.
I’ll walk out into my garden,
the farthest distance I’ve traveled for so long.
I will speak to the birds,
whisper to the worm I catch between soft fingers
to say don’t stray from the dirt! It isn’t safe.
I’ll think of all the ways safe has evolved to mean
there’s no cure, to mean living alone, to mean
a widowed father and a daughter, to mean
the couple who never made enough for that honeymoon.
The rising voices inside, coming from
my own daughter and husband
will remind me, not all is abandoned.
The small wars of a family, boundaries in motion
inside, while the outside world waits for us.
I’ll finally understand, what the great poet meant
when he said you don’t know what work is.
I’ll move back into confinement
and words and dreams
and then, I’ll do it.
The Things We Did
Morning, noon and night—
in the twilight on Church street,
or the bold daylight in Union Square.
Do you remember the way we looked?
Gleaming. Shiny. Our flushed cheeks—
the violet hue we saw
printed on the lids of closed eyes,
the way the palate and tongue tasted.
We did it in parks, on benches
even on the cold, November pavement.
Nothing could stop us.
The hunger.
Oh, do you remember what it was
to eat, to be sated?
The doors are still locked,
barricades and shields are still up
reminding us we are still at war
But baby, oh baby, when they open—
How we will feast!
Remember all those rows and rows of restaurants?
We’ll find each and every one, I swear.
—Submitted on 07/01/2020
Sanjana Nair is an English professor at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Her poems have appeared in Spoon River Poetry Review, Fence Magazine, JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, The Equalizer, Swimm, and other journals. Nair lives with her family in Brooklyn.
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