14/07/20

Your words are perfect spheres,
Like rain on fur,

Unable to permeate
My repellent pelt.

Mongrel-stubborn,
I shake them off.

The living-room carpet gets stained.

Two cats

Two cats play piano;
Soft paws on ivory keys
Stumbling into unintentional melodies.
Whiskers tickle thick chords
As hammers hit hard harmonies.


If you’re enjoying my work, would you consider following me on Twitter because I’d love to share more with you?
Thanks,
Saba

 

10/07/20

I could define today
As bare toes burrowing
In a plush sun-warmed meadow.

Instead I ruminate
On uneasy encounters
With steaming land mines of manure.


If you’re enjoying my work, would you consider following me on Twitter because I’d love to share more with you?
Thanks,
Saba

The problem is sandwiches

My problem has always been sandwiches.

Eight-years-old, explaining to my mum that love is in sandwiches;
That you really know someone loves you if they cut your sandwich into quarters.
Not halves.
Love was the effort in that extra cut.

Eight-years-old, already accustomed to quantifying love
In sandwiches.
Loved more or less each day
By butter spread to edges and cheese thinly sliced.

My mother did not know to show love in this way
Until I told her.

Eight-years-old, I gifted her the guilt of sandwiches.
Knowing now the importance I’d ascribed to this arbitrary detail,
Her thoughts filled with years of sandwiches.
Each sandwich that followed cut precisely into squares.

Growing older, I became embarrassed
Of her delicately quartered sandwiches;
Forgot that extra cut was love.
Too self-conscious, I shouted at her to stop. The other kids had halves.

Now, an adult, I make my own lunch.
Sometimes sandwiches on simple days.

Now an adult,
I still make the same mistakes.

[06/05/20]