Is grief a fruit or a vegetable? — Three poems by Irfana Izzath

poemsindia
May 2
3 min read

Is grief a fruit or a vegetable?

Grief is anar

But grief is also beet

I cut grief into small cubes

What's bleeding,

the grief or me?

Grief pops inside my mouth

And I always want more

Pomegranate's grandmother's favourite fruit

But, Anar it is,

anar bears love

It's passion,

says grandmother.

"Anar is a love language

It leaves traces of affection.

It's love

It's sweet

It's expensive,

yet affordable"

Pomegranate's a waste of time,

says mother

Apple is sweet

Even the skin's edible

Mother worships time.

Mother hates beetroot.

It bleeds, it stains

It consumes time.

But

Beetroot's service.

It's for family

Sometimes I wonder

If it's my flesh, my blood

Words from mother.

I write poetry in the kitchen

Notebook stained with beetroot juices of life

Love letters, too, should be written in the kitchen,

I tell myself.

For a lover yet to be found

I stack love letters dipped in beet juices.

I think of childhood

Grief's stained my grandmother's off white nightie red

She's peeling pomegranates.

I walk towards her

Pearls of pomegranate pop under my feet

Her hands are stained

They are black

She's been peeling for so long

For me, ummachi?

Mother,

I apologise.

Is it beet or is it anar

I don't know.

Let it be both

Is that fine?

I'm soaked in grief

It's slightly sweet at times

And it's red

Does anything else matter?

Is grief a vegetable or a fruit?

Or is it both?

Is it to be eaten raw?

Returning home

Where is my home?

I've been away,

Always.

Returning home,

Always.

I need to be home

Before midnight.

Dinner is late,

Already.

Are my children waiting?

Is there a husband?

Or, a wife?

Who's my family?

I've been seeking.

Is home a house or a tree?

Is it a tea stall or a river?

I need a room

of at least two walls

I've got ribbons to stick

pictures to hang

and people to welcome home.

I need a room

with floor and windows.

I've carpets from Delhi

curtains from Jaipur

Bookshelf's not necessary

Stacking books by the corner is fine

And some by the bed, to keep the warmth.

I need to be home.

It's heavy and I'm tired.

Christmas was two days ago

Unneesho* in my backpack

Christmas tree on Amazon wishlist

Plumcake under a tree

A piece for me

The rest, for squirrels of the world.

New year's near

how far is home?

*baby jesus in Malayalam

Home

A skirt that never stained red

Is a skirt I never owned

Red is the home I never wanted to be at

Red is the house I was born in

Red is the milk of the coconut I was bathed in

Red is the blanket that wrapped me around

Red is the lullaby mother sang in silence

A skirt that never stained red

Is a skirt I never owned

In another life

My eyes were named Monsoon

And every month was November

November the third, being my favourite

A past lover asked

'which one's easier,

being monsoon

or being her lover?'

I never knew,

I was never her lover

I closed my eyes

and hummed a lullaby

mother always sang in silence

My eyes opened

And I was in my bed

And in another lifetime

And November the third never happened.

I keep going back to where I came from

It's barren, yet colorful

The sand is pink

And the sky is green

But what are colors if not flowers

And what is the sky if not blue

Homesick is the closest I

ever get to home.

About the Poet:

Izzath is a passionate writer from Kerala who writes poems and short stories in both Malayalam and English. For them, writing—and any form of art—is a deeply personal coping mechanism, a way to process life and find meaning in chaos. Recurring themes in their poetry include women, grief, childhood, and home.

Is grief a fruit or a vegetable? — Three poems by Irfana Izzath