The Anatomy of Anguish — A Poem

The anatomy of anguish is never ordered.
It’s preordained.
Grief is ruthless. Impartial. Whimsical.
It strikes like a brazen lightning bolt.
A rude tire burst.
A curt plug pull.

Hours fall off their hinges.
Life flops into a shapeless heap of ash.
Disoriented. Discoloured. Dysfunctional.

You reach out a commiserating hand to touch the pile.
But it winces.
Then recoils. Recedes. Regurgitates.
A gush of ashen fluid — the consistency of blood — flows in both directions.

Ripples of recollection pushed forward.
Currents of ongoing events swept backwards.
The past and the present are now enmeshed.
Tiny whirlpools of connection and disconnection lay siege on your soul.

The earth of your existence is shovelled under a spade.
Every dig, a churn. Every churn, a discovery.
Some forgotten memories unearthed.
Some rusted emotions excavated.
Some crusted ideals uncrusted.

You attempt to pry open a hurting heart to let in new experiences.
But every new experience drags you into the distant past.
Because every new day is
stubbornly rooted in yesterday.

Memories grab your arm and pull you into a vortex of pain.
Urging you to stay steeped in the anatomy of anguish.
They pull, you push back.
They pull, you push back.
They pull, you push back.

Life is no longer about living.
It’s about winning this tug-of-war.

— Puja Bhakoo