Torn: A Collection

Written by Shannon Andrea Thomas

Of India

Trees
Songs of chai-snack wallahs
In the morning
I never thought much of sidewalks
Until there weren’t any, and
Dogs lie in the road
Unbothered
With freedom to take off your shoes
In the office
It’s cool
To the touch.
Like cold showers
Bucket water falls
Evaporating in the heat
The flavor of spices
Vibrant colors
Passing lunch around the table
Which is the floor we sit with bare feet
Tearing bread with one hand
Picking up rice
And auto rides
Auto drivers who speak 8 languages
On the way to movie intermissions and
anthems
It is still the era of classic rock
Shockingly good karaoke
And friends who sign you up to sing
Sublime.
Here, people do “thank you” instead of
saying it:
Listing signs of life, or poetry
Reasons to motivate a being with no limbs
How do you fight to keep living? I would have killed myself a thousand
times if not for the people I love. Or is it
that I’m scared to die?

Torn

If home
Is where the heart is,
Then I understand
Why I am
Splintered.
Torn
Not in two
But in too many directions
That I seem to have lost
My compass.
It beats to Berkeley beatniks
Mariachi and New Orleans jazz
The musical offerings of
My People,
Swelling
With the River Ganges,
Floating cacophony
Of Jerusalem’s Friday
Prayers. Broken
By blood and borders
Flood and famine
It cries out,
“Come.” Stitched
Back together [or close]
By family, fraternité, ya habibi
It whispers to me,
“Stay.”
It is not long
Before ache and longing
Tug by heartstrings to
Distant shores.
Always. Forever
A stranger, Though
This Land is not Foreign
Forever and never
Displaced,
Tracing a heart
Flung to far corners,
It is impossible
To Stay
Still.

Thunder Thighs

I wish my mother loved her thighs more;
They are strong and beautiful,
Built for long runs and
Long nights cradling me on her lap;
A family inheritance
Thick as red beans & rice
Or how to make a roux
Which means we
Wear each others’ jeans.

That time big brother called
These legs “Tree Trunks,”
Angry tears stung my eyes
Before I remembered your story
Of 8th grades’ nickname for you:

“Thunder thighs.”
At first I cringed;
Years later,
I laugh.

Strange, a sartorial solidarity
Secure in the knowledge
I come from a long line of women
Who stand
Firm in their genes
Rooted like trees
Powerful as thunder