‘Love is self-generating / Nimble and uninhibited’: Read three poems by writer Iffat Nawaz

Freedom: refunded

Sometimes
I am
Burdened by my
Independence
I have sold it a
Few times.
Unable to carry
It’s light and
Heavy weight
“Take it,
I am yours.”
I handed over the keys
With plain and
Elaborate locks.

I bargained before
Handing my freedom
Over
“With negotiation
Dirt-cheap feels
Expensive.’
I had read that
Nowhere
But heard it
Somewhere
For sure.

After every sell
I felt a sense of
Relief
“Good then,
I don’t have to
Carry myself
anymore.”
I sighed and
Obliged happily to
Whatever my
New master demanded.
It was easier to
Drown in others’ miseries
Than my own.
Their problems
Appeared as good as fiction
And I played my part.

The problem started
A few months into
My wilful surrender.
The one who held the keys
Told me, my independence
Had a mind of its own
It didn’t listen
It fought a lot, even bit
Into hands and lips.
I admitted that I knew
Its nature
Its untamed whimsicalness
Its bloodthirsty acts
Its need to fly even when
Grounding was important.

In the end
No one wanted it.
My freedom.
It was always returned
A little tattered, in half broken boxes.
It stared at me apologetically
Asked me mutely to pick it up.
Twice I had to refund half the amount
I sold it for.
And once it was simply thrown back at me,
“Take this madness and just get out of here!”
They yelled.

My independence shook like a little child,
Holding on to my neck,
It hid and buried its face in my breasts.
With tired feet I walked back
Looking for the last home
We had made together.

“Please don’t sell me again”
It begged me,
“I promise I will only help
From now on.”
My freedom’s promise felt genuine.

At night we sat side by side
On our old rooftop
Our feet dangled.
People from the streets looked up.
Someone yelled for us to
Not sit so close to the edge.
And we both giggled
At each worried warning
From below.
We blew
Bubbles into the...

Read more