The Gift



“We should not have been bestowed

with the gift of thinking,” my friend once said.


I am in a state of uncertainty.


Last spring you said I had a gift.

Had you forgotten the fact

that I could not lay bricks like you?

Nor can I say, “hello” to every passing stranger.


See, right now, I am trying to take my head

in my hands, swivel it, and write a line or two

that may bring the best of you.


Is this my gift?


I eat without speaking, hunched over my plate

in a crowded restaurant.

I prefer solitude and cannot talk about weather

to the man who’s sitting next to me.


Unlike you I cannot smoke.

Not the clove cigarettes of all the things.


I think what I am doing is merely my job.

It is enough to crack my heart open.


On a soft October night we stayed up late,

drinking rum outside your house.

Do you remember that you said

you were happy for me, that I was a poet,

and it was a good thing? Were you drunk,

or had you been dreaming?


Now, as I am trying to bring you

the memories of the paper,

I marvel at what you had said,

And say to myself, “Is this my gift?”


Twitter @bibek_writes


2 thoughts on “The Gift

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s