Shikha Valsalan
Jobless Evil Eye
She got me,
like many of her trinkets,
at a roadside souvenir shop.
Impulsive, unneeded,
but much wanted,
often caressed,
often placed back and
then picked up as many times.
I sat on a tiny shelf
at a roadside souvenir shop
in Mykonos.
Brimming with tourists
looking for a gift
to take back home
to people
they haven’t seen in a while.
I am round and
blue and white and glass,
with my dark evil eye
slightly off the center
because my maker
got distracted
by his buxom neighbor.
I am the ultimate
jumbo jinx retardant,
destined to hang
at the front of a house,
in a garden,
in a restaurant,
where people can see me
and shudder.
Destined to incinerate
a thousand evil eyes.
But now,
I am found sitting
atop one of her books
(that she’s never going to read)
on my heavyweight bottom,
pouting at my owner,
and doing nothing else,
whatsoever.
Left to dream
about all the eyes that saw me
back in Mykonos.
Only Controlled Disasters
I returned from the party,
high on both albuterol and alcohol.
Neither me
nor my fellow party goers
could handle my jitteriness
both before and after
the shattering demise
of the delicate champagne flute
that slipped from my hand,
while we toasted the writer
on his recent and his upcoming successes.
When others said ‘Salud’,
I said ‘Tiramisu’,
which was the answer
to the unasked question
of what I wanted
to eat right then.
I came back home to my bed
and to the nostalgia,
safety and predictability
of Deep Impact,
my favorite disaster movie.
Darkness, My Old Friend
Darkness.
Not the metaphorical vortex
that sucks you
into its depths,
where you see nothing,
where you only feel
the blackness crush your insides.
Nope.
I talk of the darkness
in a room at 3.30 am,
untouched by manmade fluorescence.
The darkness which invites you in,
soothing your eyes
and body with promises
of a warm sticky gooey sleep
you just want to sink into.
Lifting you,
like you are a weightless,
massless,
nonexistent blob.
When out of the goo
comes a tiny foot
and plops on your face.
And then another.
While you lay there
bobbing in
and out of honey-sweet sleep,
you hear a sleepy slurred voice
from far away.
“Not nice Amma. I want to play,”
says the feet.
One foot kicks you
in the nose
to make the point.
Darkness retreats,
sleep slumps back in defeat,
carrying all its dripping sweetness
back with it.
You are on your own, Amma.
Shikha Valsalan grew up in Dubai and India, and currently lives in Atlanta, USA. She works as a product manager in her day job, and writes in her free time. Her work has appeared in the Roi Fainéant Press and The Disappointed Housewife.
X: @ShikhaV_
Featured Photo by Lisa Fotios (Pexels)
