salt (December 2019, New Year’s Eve at Shaheen Bagh)

Where is a slogan born?
When does a sack of
rice begin to speak?

The moon laughs tonight
as didi roasts the revolution
in her tava, before feeding
the hands that distribute
pamphlets, and anger.

We sell poems cheap, but poetry
you can do without. What will you
do when they steal the fire
from your eyes?

O, my land,
you are salt,
quiet confidante
who I know by her absence.

This city is a cauldron of smoke
and fog, tear gas mixed with cigarette
draught, exhaust fumes folded into smog,
and ashes.

I lift my head and taste the rancid
breeze.

The wind has changed.