celebrate with me, won't you?

a piece of heart packed in a poem

meow my moonflowers.

this poem was speed-written in an Ochre Sky Stories workshop alongside a zoom-screen squares-full of gentlest, loveliest writers. the refrain is a play on Lucille Clifton’s won't you celebrate with me

Nowhere Home is a labor of love, a home built on and through and for stories. I would love to knock at your inbox with posts, playlists, and pyaar.

    
won't you 

      walk around GK-2 market 
      get your nose pierced 
      the man with a million tattoos
      talking to me about mine 
      distracting you from pain 
      needle puncturing your cartilage

      hunt down rings that fit your vibe
      pick a star, not too bright or bling
      but plain white with piercings 
      to sew in yellow string lights

      rummage through clutter
      set up the little tree 
      carelessly boxed and put away 
      after months only to make space 
      for another ritual, another season
      to be put out the day we wake up 
      catch the whiff of hope 
      declare christmas

 with me? 

come    

       it is not late
       Jesus arrived at midnight
       churches in secundarabad 
       might not yet feed you cake 

with me    
    
       walk to nampally 
       through quiet and terror 
       of trafficlessness 
       pop mouthfuls of flaky parotta 
       dipped in gravy wrapped 
       around tenderly roasted beef 

come, celebrate with me 

      let tears cleanse our sight 
      hold on to each other
      with our smallest fingers
      walk the makeshift bazaar 
      unfolding itself into being 
      every tuesday 
      buy nothing 

       sing the same four lines from
       silent night for months
       tell carol stories for days
       have virginia and her father brocelli 
       hold hearts in a spell 

       break into a cackle 
       when speakers conjure 
       mammootty belting joy 

celebrate with me
        
       the light we shine 
       onto each other 
       even if
       carol groups no longer 
       ring bells and dance their way
       home to home
       even when
       string bulbs refuse to light up 

won't you?         

---

                                                     thank you for reading, really. 

                Nowhere Home is a labor of love, a home built on, through, and for stories. 
                     i would love to knock at your inbox with posts, playlists, and pyaar.