Two Poems by Shah Nabil

Butter Chicken Blues

Hey, you’re Indian right? Indians
always got that luscious black hair,
said a patient at the hospital where I volunteered.
Swallowing the urge to say I wasn’t
technically Indian for the thousandth time
—I simply nod and don’t tell them I’m balding.

Technically, I’m Asian. More specifically,
I’m South Asian, family from the Indian
subcontinent. Although—really—
I’m Bengali, family from Bangladesh, land
of the rivers, a pretty brutal independence
war, and thus home of the free
—sounds familiar, I’m also American.

Baba, I’m doing a history project and I have
to interview you about the war, I said in
high-school at our off-white couch in the living
room, before learning for the first time how his
family was tied up by Pakistani soldiers and beaten
down by batons till 4 in the morning to the birds
chirping and bees buzzing over the dewy
moss and then just as one of them was about to die,
all bloody red onto the Earth’s canvas
—they left

—Now it’s the present and I left my culture. I’m the pride birthed from
history, and my battlefield is struggling to understand directions
on finding a Mojo from an auntie, and my telegraph is trying to
learn more about Bengali cuisine other than butter chicken
—which is Indian by the way…

And then I try to be an American,
but it’s a melting pot. I dilute myself more,
stressing the red, blue, and white,
—but holding onto the green of my origins.

So if I’m not Bengali enough, and I’m not American enough
—then I’m just a bee in a wasp’s nest, pining for the next honey-comb
in a world full of wasps’ paper-combs, all saliva and brittle wood fiber.

Then I’m also just a person who needs to paint a new canvas
—deciding if I should keep
the colors of those who
came before
me.

*

Idle Talk

After graduation, an acquaintance and I head to a Tiramisu Café under the scorching sun. At the counter, I ask for a menu, only to be met with the triumphant declaration: “You have to scan the QR code”. We sit in a room of empty birch tables. The tiramisu is dry and overpriced.

a fan keeps turning
two single people sit still
suddenly aware

*

Shah Nabil is an emerging Bengali-American poet hoping to explore the humorous side of poetry. He is a Biology major with a minor in Creative Writing at New York University. In his free time, he likes to read fantasy fiction, weightlift, and cook fusion dishes.