Aneeqa Chaudary Poetry

We remain without direction
but delude ourselves with labels,
north to clarity, south to passion, east to culture, west to freedom,
taking the name from the blood red bird,
we so order ourselves, but, ah, I love you
and now it is too late to be organized.

I was serpentine a month ago
and wrapped myself in Gordian knots
around work and words, not unlike Lamia,
and wrote things which I proclaimed beautiful
and, by the power vested in me, I was once a writer,
but I love you and my parents, too,
yet never the two shall meet.

I would say to them, "œThis is the other
half of my soul. I have found her and
we are complete and circular."? But they
would point out that I or they or we had
taken a wrong direction somewhere
and we would need to back track to set me on the right path.

And if only for a moment, they would be triumphant,
for, turning away from them, I would recognize
a wrong step taken, a wrong direction driven,
when I should have flown straight as the cardinal flies.
You and I remain without direction,
so we must throw away our compass.

Poet: Kristin Anthony