The Gift

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“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

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