Four Clover Life- By Namrata Shailendra Singh

I keep my "i" small— allowing it to sit on the rustic fence of life, inhaling the dalliance of the zephyr, the daisies, and the daffodils, knowing well, any time it can teeter and fall by words and worry, anger and anxiety. That our hearts—with their entangled crimson arteries— have an even more entangled life— mysterious and mischievous. We can never be too sure, too certain of its beats. One time black metal, and the other time lullabies. I keep my "i" small— the path on which I walk wasn't carved out only for me. The medallion sun did not single me out for bees' bounties. Millions have walked on the stony ballast, winning and losing their valuable something along. Millions will continue to traverse long after I have ended my song. The small "i" in me makes room for mistakes. I know I am capable of, and I am sure I did commit— indisputably so— that while I can present, I can also paralyze; while I can dream, I can also destroy; while I can conc

 

 

  "I have a lot of dead people in my family now. They inhabited the stories my father regaled us( my sister and I) with as we went about not minding our own business. Stories of uncles and aunts far and near, stories of childhood squabbles and village life, stories of growing up, marriage, and becoming distant, stories of give and take, property disputes, and stories of gold jewelry and silk sarees during nieces’ weddings. Then many of them died, and I let them die in my thoughts too. But, you won’t find him here. Imagine a 12-inch pizza, a Neapolitan crust with your favorite toppings ( you could choose jalapenos, basil, olives, or bell pepper)  divided into eight slices, four sides loaded with fresh mozzarella, hot, and lip-smacking. For me, he represented the four slices: the richest, the creamiest, and umami.  The day he died, I made love to my husband, the newlywed groom. Frightened by his death, though I knew it was coming any time, I found solace on a beige-colored darbha

  The Poet's Hat-----From Jamshedpur 3rd grade( that's when I penned my first poem) to the Poet Laureate's platform. Thank you, Lake County Poet Laureate 2020-2024 - Georgina Marie Guardado (The Bloom Literary Editor) and Jonah David Wakefield, for picking the precious poppies from the meadow of my words. This is an honor I'll remember... https://www.lakecountybloom.com/two-poems-by-namrata-singh/ Click on the link to read- Unscientific and A Parallel World. Poet Laureate Georgina Marie Guardado has published two poems for National Poetry Month- The Dandelion and Over A Cup of Tea. I wrote the first under a spell of tragic optimism and the other under the spell of a power outage(so rare in the privileged life I lead.) Click on the link to savor both- https://www.lakecountybloom.com/two-poems-by-namrata.../

                            Yes, that is what your son called me the day he lit your pyre- you’re an infidel. You stay and enjoy the United States. Try not to call. My stomach churned, and my thighs wobbled as I pulled strands of hair from the crown of my head,  pulled them so hard, it bled, and now a tiny bald patch is visible. The pandemic created travel rules I couldn’t break, a distance I couldn’t traverse, and circumstances so new to everyone around us, we stopped being people we knew. With your double mastectomy, you were the most vulnerable person to being spotted by the virus. The citadels erected around you proved permeable as the virus wormed and hoisted itself into your body. I was incapacitated, but your son stood right beside you; he did all he could, and so did your daughter-in-law, your husband, your brother, and even your sister-in-law. I was the only one missing because, years back, I chose to plant myself in a different country. But I tweeted and posted. I begged for