salt
on some days, i have to remind myself
there is still green,
grass pointing north. sharp,
almost static, the way it stings.
i am unable to sleep, again.
my bare skin itching, reminds me
i am alive. flip the pillow again
to the cold side.
where the cats stray,
i follow. wandering about,
drawn to the sound of life.
sometimes, i need to hear another.
the nectar from flowers
in a friend’s backyard slips onto my
dryness, letting ants crawl up
my sleeves—i hate being tickled.
the hair on my neck stands
up, slick with sweat
from July sun,
and i stick to everything.
isn’t that our burden?
the groceries from Costco shift
at every turn, chatter clinking.
a little girl smiles at me,
the ice cream dripping off her
small, chubby arms. she waves,
conjuring an ocean. how powerful.
her chocolate-laced fingers unaware,
waiting to become a sweet
disaster. i smile back, sometimes.
i fell asleep, the cotton sheets
making me home.
there is still green,
where i let it be.
~
The very hungry caterpillar told me it was okay.
After the Wallows’ concert, my girlfriends and I
reminisce. Our eardrums rang; the bass was reckless. Gluttony,
someone said, is her sin.
We demolished our In-N-Out in under 10 minutes and trudged uphill to share
the most decadent sea-salt, caramel, dark chocolate ice cream from the Ghirardelli Factory.
We talked about life now, as if a lot has changed, except us. It’s always been us.
I tell them about a girl, who is gentle. When she kisses me, I am replenished.
And that I think I’ve never been more at peace
with myself.
We screamed obscene lyrics during the drive to and from the dorms;
windows down, midnight,
Fisherman’s Wharf. I apologized for the noise, but
Mary Oliver said joy is not made to be a crumb.
It’s made to be all-consuming. It’s terrifying to be a vessel when everything is fleeting.
So the three of us let the music in
and danced in the backseat. Our tummys ached
from laughter and sugar and all the fucking freedom.
The city streets reflect all of our desires
alongside the smell of cigarettes and piss.
My shame has never been more
delectable. I don’t pray, but I do. I do, every time I give in.
I’m learning to move with it. Let it steep in my tea. Let it stay in my lungs,
trying to find balance with breath and body. Gluttony,
someone said, is her sin. And I wish
I asked—is that such a bad thing?
Nitika Sathiya (she/they) is a queer South Asian American poet and community organizer. She is a 2022 Alameda County Co-Youth Poet Laureate, published by BART, t'ART Magazine, Poets Reading The News, The Cloudscent Journal, and more. Nitika is currently pursuing her undergraduate degree in Civil Engineering at the University of California, Davis. They love (making) bad jokes, drinking tea, and running.
