How to adapt to circadian rhythms, like a 1-month-old


He awoke before his parents did, welcoming the dawn
he slept at dusk or atleast tricked us into believing such
rehearsed order was normal, once he was cradled, snore
a hum, tucked into a warm lap, the house moved around

in cushioned winter clogs, the morning sucking at blue
skies while he napped, lips puckered into an intentional
proximity, gargling in contentment afterwards, evening
thickening, like a porridge bubbling with lactation herbs

hovering as if statue at a doorframe, the sweet noise
of silence lingering, as if a medley of vernix& tears
he wore this aura, his smell, now a scent that is an
addiction for the entire family, dark settling into a

dream, he now occupies the bareness, a breathing
of familiarity, languorous like Boston air in summer
its swollen breasts, savoring the river below as if to
say –
 “Sleep little one, for I will be back with the
sound of morning – the chorus of the kitchen as
well as an aria on my fingertips. I will find you
perfect rhythms, seep them into the pores of your
translucent skin”


smiling through the blackest pinhole of his eyes
his head perched on father’s shoulder, baldness
a full moon atop the cavity of a cloud, sleep like
a worm in the fleshed quiet of humid nightfalls
 

A hymn 


I remember
reborn into myself 
bursting and blooming
a child splendorous in my arms
an ache fevering itself into my nights

I remember
bursting into tears
tears that never stopped
my shadows emptying my self 
through a 40-day hiatus of unreeled days

I remember
the need to renew
my loneliness flowing naked
into my pores as they blossomed
with bruises of birth, of survival, relief

I remember
my thirst for a sweet nectar
to enliven my sagging breasts
parched of hunger and of sleep
of being cradled inside an inequilibrium


I remember, a stew
it’s sticky texture
cautiously embracing
tempering my tears

I remember, a lush
yellow, broth, luminous 
with diced garlic, simmering
into a thicket, cooking down

I remember, wholesome
round lentils splitting
a feast of sun rays 
unnoticed turmeric
 
I remember a jubilance of
shredded ginger placated by ghee
panch dals courting rice grains 
maverick peppercorns and jeera
with a dash of coriander

I remember, ma
as composed as
yogurt and mint 
bringing a matki
of simmering 
affirmation

khichdi of hand-pressed life
a pot bubbling
a nudging silence

khichdi that preserved me

Poet’s Bio:

When Kashiana is not writing, she lives to embody her TEDx talk theme of Work as Worship into her every day. Her chapbook Crushed Anthills by Yavanika Press is a journey through 10 cities. Her newest full-length collection, Woman by the Door was released in Feb 2022 with Apprentice House Press. She lives in North Carolina and carries all her geo-political homes within her poetry.

Website – http://www.kashianasingh.com/

TEDx Talk – https://youtu.be/jzFflaqPrhM