In my house,
a cup of tea prepared by
the 17-year-old me is
appreciated more than
my poetry. Strange women
with magnifiers instead of eyes
scrutinize what I cook best
and when I will be of age.
My mother lets them.
My poetry book sits untouched
because the women forgot their
spectacles at home and insist
that they cannot read without them.
After that, they pick up Vogue
and comment about the
cover girl’s bushy eyebrows and
read an article on vacuum cleaners.
The words I had penned down
in a passionate pell-mell whine
and complain to me. I hush them.
I lie to them, giving faux reassurances
to them, telling them they are still
very relevant and enjoyable. My
poetry has washed up on a
remote island. It’s now obsolete.


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