Poem 261 ± February 20, 2016

Harnidh Kaur

Mornings start with the shuffle
of feet against the tiled floor,
whisper of cheap, fake georgette
rubbing against itself, static, buzz,
never reaching electric fulfillment,
the clip of a ceramic mug against
the edge of the glass top, making
the wood of the table grunt against
that of the bed, angry, stubborn inertia,
the muddled crackle of the newspaper
damp with the heavy water-bearing air,
interspersed with the muffled clap and
clomp of utensils being shifted, lids
clanging like the cymbals stirring out
of control from a young drummer’s hands—
quiet whirr of the refrigerator now
punctuates the shrill screech of the
food processor, rising up in crescendo
with the sizzle pop crackle of a single egg
(fried with a little shimmer of pepper
glinting off the white, black granules
wading through yellow glimmer grease),
paired with the stunned alarm of the
toaster letting off its ward, unharmed
except for the slight char echoing the
metallic binds of orange heat branding
through the carefully timed traps—
stillness is a lost language in a world
defined by violent sounds and smells.


Harnid KauerHarnidh Kaur is the author of The Inability of Words (Writers Workshop, 2016). She is currently pursuing her masters degree in public policy from St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai. Her work can be found on her personal blog, Forever Awkward (and Maybe Learning).

This poem is not previously published.