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.