The following is a submission of poetry from Augustine Mendes, who trusts us enough to publish his art (and for that I am forever grateful). Follow him on instagram (@augustinemendes) for more.

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Not In India

My mother wrapped me in banyan leaves 
Blessed me with incense, kissed me with haldi
She lulled me to sleep with her mother tongue 

My people wrapped a banyan tree
Blessed her with tears, adorned her with haldi
They lulled her to sleep with the colonizer's tongue 

My mother told me we were leaving for another world
We left our homeland in a qabrastan
Somewhere a banyan tree weeps for me

My people are enemy aliens in the new world 
White wolves want us in their qabrastan 
In the bathroom my mother weeps for me 

I am not a child of this new world
I mask the smell of incense and haldi 
I scrub the brown off my skin until it is red

I watch the fall of my old world  
Once they took over, all in the name of haldi 
The waters of the Indus forever stained red

My mother told me to be a banyan tree
A promise she made to me from the womb 
A nation built in the name of harmony 

A burnt stump where there used to be a banyan tree
My village a set of roots in a mangled womb 
Enemy aliens do not get to share in harmony

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Cute and Overall Great

Forget-me-nots push past a rib cage, broken hearts decompose faster than you know, something about smaller pieces. A dandelion robs the garden of water, my mother always said I ran her dry. Weeds grow like wild things, maybe that’s why I take up all the space in a room. Prune the garden, get rid of the dead things, burn the whole garden down. A bush where once there was a clearing, the fruits have turned sour, the worms will feast tonight.

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