Young Poet: Aman Alam

Aman Alam is an Indian student and poet. He writes because some thoughts are better off as poems. His poems have found space in Rattle, Obsessed with Pipework, Lake Poetry, Vanity Papers, and others.

:this is not a poem it’s a warning label

— there is no title because titles are for books that finish —

the ceiling coughs again // someone’s frying onions downstairs / or burning memory — hard to tell these days

(i asked my mother when she stopped praying: she said when the gods started charging rent for miracles)

a phone rings in the other room. no one answers. we like it better that way. dial tone is a kind of lullaby.

[insert photo of a boy] caption: “he was always smiling” scroll like like forget

some girl on the train carves her name into the seat with a compass so the plastic remembers her longer than people do

&&& my friend says trauma’s a currency now everyone’s broke but showing off receipts

what do you call a country that loves statues more than breathing children?

this isn’t poetry it’s graffiti on the inside of your ribs written in coughs erased by hunger

(come closer)

there’s a final line here but it refuses to arrive.

[things i can’t put in my résumé]

— 2013: i learn silence is a second language. fluent by 15.

— afternoons smell like chalkdust + disappointment. my school says god made us equal. my lunchbox says otherwise.

— i google “how to disappear without dying.” clear search history. do it again.

once a boy called me “poet.” i haven’t written since. the compliment was too sharp.

my grandmother’s hands were maps but no one read them. she died with directions to somewhere we can’t afford to go.

[intermission: your mother’s voice, off-key, singing to the gas stove.]

i tried therapy once. she asked “what brings you here?” i said: “my legs.” we both laughed. then we never met again.

sometimes i hold my breath at traffic lights just to see if i still want it back.

— i’ve been the secret. — i’ve been the one told the secret. — i’ve never been the one safe enough to be honest.

a girl wrote “u up?” at 3:47 a.m. i replied: “no.” she said: “same.” we haven’t spoken since.

add to experience:

eating alone in public

crying in the shower but poetically

becoming someone else’s ‘almost’

references available on request. but they all moved cities.