The Last Frontier

Meanwhile I looked for space, for a new frontier.

The blows, when they came like torrential rains

brought healings too, much to my resistance.

A poem is not merely poetry, often it is the spokesman of truth.

Truth flaps its wings in the guise of poetry,

then it falls off me onto this piece of paper

and lo! this translucent monologue begins --

.......

And I went to war unprepared.

I knew my rank would be that of a kitchen hand or lower,

but still it was a war and I was summoned to fight.

When I'd come home as a war veteran,

and serving the country as a kitchen hand

through all the posthuman warring strategies,

through famine, deluge, through avalanches

and melted glaciers,

through chemical cum biological weapons

and, and being a mercenary, being counterfeited,

being gassed and gagged I'd outlive my fellow species

and, above all I'll keep earning my medals..

O my medals, it's medals made of onion rings

and garlic, sages, and thymes.

I'd wear them all.

I'd wear them all upon coming to you,

I might take short service leave

to show you that there's no shame in being a kitchen hand.

No shame at all in being a kitchen hand.

I'm the kitchen hand by daylight like the daylight

and by night just like the night.

Meanwhile I'll keep looking for new frontiers

as for the blows, when they come left and right

I'll surely survive.

I'd be the guerrilla of all last frontiers.

Bipasha Haque is a diaspora writer with particular interest in life-the way it is. By profession she is a university teacher.