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Writer's pictureSaluja Siwakoti

i wrote a poem on chaos and candles

Updated: Dec 1, 2022

because a Kathmandu scented candle

hand poured in Tampa, Florida

is flickering in my room, blatantly lying.

because if you hand poured the smell of Kathmandu air

it would smell of burning tire from the protests.

the blood of goats Hindus sacrifice for Dashain,

infused with the blood of every Muslim

lynched for sacrificing a cow next door.

heaven don’t allow any beef.

it would smell the smell of Nawaraj BK’s sweat

running for his life before he makes that jump

because how dare his love be casteless?

wet cement and tar from forever unfinished,

“we are develop-ing/catch-ing up/ US-Aid is help-ing us,” projects

clouds hovering above Kathmandu reek

the body of a migrant worker,

cremated 8 months after death,

incense burning in front of his portrait-portraits.

then somewhere another plane flying to the International terminal

for the civilized

so civilized, some hid their shit on Everest.

air quality index-600; worst air in the world as of Monday

does a city in choking have a smell?

if i told you that is my home, is it wicked cool still?

who does a choking city choke anyway? i am not choking.

to live the American dream is

to escape a choking i was never part of

then watch black bodies be choked everyday.

to live the American dream is to say,

thank you, whiteness, for your mercy.

to live the American dream is to apologize,

until you realize there is no promise.

yet a dream built on lies must be shattered

despite a stunted mother tongue,

a father’s disappointment,

a deceptive candle.


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