Tishani Doshi

A poem

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Softly, first, over egg bhurji and juice—

this country is losing her soul,

because a man in a wheelchair is beaten

for not standing to the national anthem,

because breakfast was once a noble affair,

not this litany of selfies. I know it’s ridiculous

to think countries have souls, that this one

could be feminine. I know I should have faith

in happiness and child wonders,

who will rid plastic from the earth. Oh yes,

I know the possibility of a person coming

to their knees at an airport, crying, Who am I,

is high, and most people will walk by

because time is always calling. We must believe

everything will be all right because people

are still having babies and taking them to the sea.

So what if a man is slaughtered and set alight

for love, for a slab of dead cow, for reasons

sacred? So what if the waters are rising,

and those seas will soon be upon us?

We must live in the moments we’re given.

Louder now, in the lobby of the Holiday Inn—

this country is losing her soul,

because politicians declare our daughters

safe as long as they’re parked at home,

and geniuses proclaim the national bird

so holy, it impregnates with tears.

I know I should be kinder on feedback forms.

I know you don’t really want to tell me how

to live unless you’re selling me something.

No one’s really listening unless you’re on TV.

But there are people who still grow heirloom rice,

who long for roses to assault the walls

of their homes because they believe in beauty

and her graces. And perhaps part of surviving

is to keep your knees soft, to bear grief

that the missing will always remain missing.

So when the new year arrives with the golden

light of a late Sunday morning, whispering how

everyone you love will be kept safe, you take

those promises deep into the pink

of your mouth, and you swallow.

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