
don’t tell me how much
you love me, not now
when days are fragrant
with lavender
and the earth’s pulse
throbs with the beat of every heart
and I hear yours
make no promises when
the scent of moonflowers
rides on the night breeze
through the window
wait until fluttering wings
have flown south
the sky is muted
and snow has padded
the ground
until the air wears
a winter shroud
tell me then how much
you love me
on the longest night
and if you’re still
by my side
© Neetu Malik

November draws me
into bleak arms
I wonder where the leaves
have gone—
though I know, yet I walk in
nameless hope
of miracle
in this ghastly fog
so dense, so deep that
I am lost
stepping on crumbled
autumn stalks
I remember your face
with wisdom drawn,
how it still shone
after its light was robbed
but now there’s just me,
the part that’s left of your artery
the purple sunset a reminder
of approaching dark,
who I am and how
mortal we are.
© Neetu Malik

crow flies overhead
I hear pandemonium
shrieking birds gone berserk
my peace disturbed
through my window
I peek
to see a world gone awry
a baby bird in its beak
the black crow on sleek wings
no match for smaller things
always comes back
to Darwin
© Neetu Malik

last night’s hurricane blew the roof off
pieces of felt lay on the street like bits of rubber tires
blown off a moving car mundane occurrences
don’t matter insurance will cover damages it’s
only stuff replaceable in all events except
life that breathes skin that is drenched in the rain or tears
the hand that held yours when others crept away and you
were alone looking at the leaky ceiling with
the roof partly gone streaks of cloud visible perhaps none
of the storm strikes you as odd just the leaking heart you hear
drip drip drip
© Neetu Malik

She needs to dig deep
to pull the roots
that grow under her feet
to do so requires strength
and a sharp shovel
the earth on which she stands
has hardened to stone
she waits for a miracle from sunrise
to sunset, but none appears—
her own shadow lengthens before
it merges into night
and so days and months pass,
seasons roll by—
she cannot see, but feels the tug
of the roots,
how entrenched they must be
to hold her
bound.
© Neetu Malik
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More info →A Slice of Orange is an affiliate with some of the booksellers listed on this website, including Barnes & Nobel, Books A Million, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords. This means A Slice of Orange may earn a small advertising fee from sales made through the links used on this website. There are reminders of these affiliate links on the pages for individual books.
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