Watermelon Villanelle

A turmuz that's what life is
Don't let the seeds get you; just spit them out.
My grandma's words, may she rest in peace.

My teeth cut into redness,
little grains of fluff juice floods my mouth;
a canvas of color. That's what life is.

A frivolous kiss as soft as fleece:
savor it before time runs out.
My grandma's wisdom may she rest in peace.

Slippery seeds slither and slide with ease.
I focus, gather each and spit it out,
eat the turmuz. She had no peace

trapped fifty years in "wedded bliss"
no way out
but death she rests in peace.

For her granddaughter, twenty-five sufficed,
to leave a sticky taste in my mouth.
A turmuz Is that what life is?
My grandma's dead. May she rest in peace.

My Favorite Reader

I would have her be a housewife
on a day she cleans the clutter
in her cupboard. The top shelf,
wedding gifts stashed in faded wraps
resealed torn tissues of green and red,
spirits waiting to cross over.
The housewife, let's call her Sakina,
checks gifts for regifting,
pulls out my book of poems, a slim copy,
the first (and only) edition.
A cobweb clings to the jacket,
holding it back.

She flicks to the front page, reads,
"Happy Returns of the Day!
May your wedded life be a poem!"
Squints at the watery blue ink, diluted with time
six years already? Sits on the floor, hunched,
tendrils of hair escaping her tight bun.

The dust motes scintillate the morning light,
settle as she reads, her elongated shadow
squashed, transformed. The chicken curry
sizzles to an umber sauce,
releases a glorious charred smell.
And yet her eyes scan the pages,
seek validation, discover the poetry of her wedded life.

Razia Sultana Khan is Head, Department of English, Independent University Bangladesh (IUB).