Poems by Dr. Vaishnavi Pusapati

The following two poems were inspired by Jayne Shatz's artwork, The Empty Bowl, which appears on the Poetry X Hunger website--ART - Poetry X Hunger.

Hunger eats away at us

Hunger eats away at us, gnawing
and the fat have become thin, gaunt.
Cyanide kills quickly
but hunger takes its cruel time.

I have so many clothes at home, useless,
why did I buy them, the china, the chairs?
The days of “Please pass the salt.”
are ancient history, so unreal now.

I see tired living ghosts and there is
nothing left to eat, nothing to steal.
Even the meltwater consumed.

I think of those days,
when I voluntarily starved myself
when there was food in the fridge,
to lose extra pounds, to be normal, perfect.

I remember the first day of severe hunger,
when stopping by the flowers, I ate them.
We ate the rats, the birds and the leaves
and hence at night, the silence and we pray, for death.

Click to hear the poet read the poem.

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I can’t swim

We stare at empty bowls, should it rain, we are ready.
Holding onto empty bowls, we look like children
playing with clay kitchens, some of us are teenagers still.

In the beginning the smart left, hesitated at the peril
when it faced them, recognized it and turned away,
and the stubborn are left behind, in a lurch.

I feel lighter by the day and we are at a doldrum.
A hundred of us got on this boat, to migrate to Europe,
and every day, someone dies, falls into the sea, in rigor mortis,
disappears and we go on. Every day we wonder if we shall capsize.
There is a sea of water around, not a drop to drink.

We are falling ill but the floating boat, goes on.
I think of the families, anxiously waiting for news,
news of our safe journey and I doubt that shall happen.
We are not criminals, unless the dream of a better life is criminal.

Between the devil and the deep blue sea, the fire and the frying pan,
I think of the ghosts of dead men beneath the waves, rested in unrest.
I have seen the faces of hope, of desperation, of hunger, of thirst.
I try to stay awake, and chewing on nothing, and should we capsize,
like many on this float called a boat, I cannot swim.

Previously published in Prole, Palisades Review, Litbreak, Molecule, Dreich, among others.

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