Nitika Sathiya | Poetry

i am black tea leaves at the bottom of the pot

of chai my grandma makes daily. 

a bloodline of leaves; my roots resolutely emerging.

a sort of restoration rests in my palms. 

am i proof of ancestral prayers? 

that i am wild and free, unearthed. 

my birth was loud, 

a miracle of words and their force. 

i wonder how many voices make mine.

my grandma wonders what keeps me so busy,

and i want to tell her i have many lives 

to live. 

i write in all tenses; past 

the evil eye. third eye 

perspective is a revolution. 

do the same things 

keep us up at night? 

the magnetic connection 

between storytellers is loud. 

she shivers when i cry. 

we sip. we hope, 

our hands gripping our mugs. 

the universe

at the                   bottom.