Zara Jamshed

Rookie (1995)

Two Profound Water Fountains - Poem by Zara Jamshed

Each of us have two profound water fountains
And they flow between the pensive ridges of your forehead and the bridge of your nose.
Once, my skin was desert that drained my fountains to solid glass shields
So I can see the world though an interconnected network of cracks and fractures.
And maybe if I count the missing pieces, I'll find the number of months of how long my fountains have dried.
In a fog, I recall 2008 when I closed the gates to my national park and abandoned my fountains.
And I headed off to the military where I swore to be a soldier in the front line of danger
I could walk out of a fight with my nose in the air, sniffing for dry rivers and raging fires so that if the smoke seeped into my fountains, the world would see even more clearly my iron fist and my iron lungs unscathed in the turmoil, thirsting for disaster, longing for destruction...
Until...a boy broke my heart.
I barreled down my locked gates and tried to turn my faucets on,
But they had forgotten how to bleed, just shook and sputtered and gurgled violently
And in a burst of frustration, another line scratched over my dry eyes, so that with one last crack, my glass shattered in a flood of repressed anger and despair.
As the mist ascended, I inhaled the saltwater and I gaze into a world so pure in its misery as well as its triumph.
I taste the veil which flutters away leaving a trail of my arrogance, vague to see.
Without our tears, we wouldn't have out scars
Which etch themselves into a series of maps and compasses
That lead us back to our own North Stars that fade in and out of existence
And we'll blunder aimlessly in our pride
Until someone comes along with a paintbrush.
And spells out your life in a single sentence of absurdity and contradictions
But if you look between the letters, you'll see the sunshine and cinnamon as well as agony and hues of loneliness.
And the whole painting can be unwoven and rearranged into your self portrait
On which the painter will flick a single dropp of blue paint.
And he'll let it land exactly equidistant of your rational brain and your uncontrollable heart
So if he lets the paint run long enough, that stain will be the leaking from his own fountains.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, May 9, 2010

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