By Fizza Abbas
I love chipped crayons
they tell me colours can come in different forms:
pitch-black darkness can become the reincarnation of red
moonlight can subdue the proud ribbon-like body of the river
wise men need not have a white beard.
I often whisper to the wavelength,
ask her to, once, and for all,
be flexible if dispersion is an absolute necessity
to tune into madness-
her least favourite frequency.
Sometimes, I even read her poems
so she can know I have word bubbles
that don’t blow my way,
similar to the paintballs
she complains of being too unruly and wild.
I am a laywoman
with no command on phonetics
deficit and the shit sounds similar to me
and I often tell my husband –
take care of calorie the shit,
he, being, the ultimate science guy
says, it’s a good fat joke
Once in a while, we’re on the same wavelength.
And nibbling the crayons, I often think,
I too can think.
© 2020 Fizza Abbas