In the interim cool of the oasis,
I forget about the desert.

I am grateful, I tell myself,
For the shade and the water.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it?
What I prayed for, for days
As I walked, alone and parched.

I try to remember back,
When I asked to be placed in the desert.
No memories come to mind.

A memory comes instead,
Of wanting adventures in rainforests,
Lush greenery and birdsong.
I was granted that wish,
And greenery paved way
For horrors of the jungle,
Beasts and monsters,
Ready to devour me.
I am sorry, I remember praying,
I didn’t know any better.
But this is what you asked for,
Didn’t you?

Rested now, I set about
Making this oasis livable.
Building castles out of air is a lot easier
Than building homes out of sand, I find.

I learn to accept the solitude,
The endless heat,
The freezing nights.
I should be grateful, I tell myself,
For the sunsets reflected in water.

Each morning, I see two eagles in the distance,
And I think idly,
That it might be nice to have a companion
In this empty, barren land.

And eventually, I find one
Rattling under a cactus bush.
This is what you wanted, isn’t it?
You asked for a companion.

Prayers can no longer be short, it appears.
There need to be clarifying clauses.
And sub-clauses.
And footnotes.

And there is no point wishing for rainforests,
If I am to end up being disillusioned.
And what is the point,
of wishing for unreachable destinations.

I wonder if praying for everything dilutes the power of the prayer.
Will I get nothing if I ask for everything?
Will I lose everything else if I ask for just one?

I am accustomed now
To my sand home,
To my battles with the rattles,
To the calls of the eagles,
To the reflections of the sun.

There are so many silver linings,
I tell myself.

I cannot remember the last time,
I reached a star that I actually aimed for.

The Color of Anger

They are mistaken,
Those who think that anger is red.
That it bubbles up like a pot on the stove,
And lashes out as boiling water,
Scalding others and cooling itself.

Anger is brown,
It is murky in its motivations
And opaque in its origins.

It is a clear yellow,
Making its way into the heart,
Into the stomach,
Acidic and biting.

It is green
As it keeps score,
Envious and entitled.

It is blue,
Made of tears,
And the sky at 4 am of another insomniac night.

But mostly, it is white.
Empty and unforgiving.