On the first evening of our trip, after escaping the traffic into dark narrow lanes of south Goa, we stopped at a small store to stock up on smokes and snacks. This picture, taken during that stop, stuck with me for the rest of the trip and eventually became this other piece (the doodles) and a poem.
A yellow fever grips
the shutter with susurrations.
Yes,
the wind whistles when
you carve it with
a tongue rolled into a spear.
~
The memory needle sews all day,
these petite un-tree-d leaves
mottled by meaning making, into
a wreath, undone at night.
~
Here's a garland of my tangled thoughts
dried into a flimsy noose that
wouldn't even hang itself.
~
the doodling poet 