Voices Within: Megha Sood

Megha Sood is an Award-winning Asian American Poet, Editor, Author, Literary Activist from New Jersey, USA. Recipient of 2021 Poet Fellowship from MVICW (Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creating Writing) and a National Level Winner for the 2020 Poetry Matters Project. Recipient of “Certificate of Excellence” from Mayor, Jersey City. Associate Poetry Editor Literary Journals Mookychick (UK), Life and Legends (USA), and Literary Partner with “Life in Quarantine”, Stanford University. Author of Chapbook (“My Body is Not an Apology”, Finishing Line Press, 2021) and Full Length (“My Body Lives Like a Threat”, FlowerSongPress,2022). She blogs at https://meghasworldsite.wordpress.com/ and tweets at @meghasood16.

Treacherous Dune

Memories slip on the silent back of the dunes
those shape-shifting sands
are treacherous you see
as they promise you an eternity

till the next whiff of the fleeting wind
that catches their attention
dancing and glimmering;
in the hot sweltering heat of the sun
they morph and mold to please

the voluptuous calls of the breeze
echoes of the silence,
bouncing back for eons
hopes for the company

the scorched backs of dunes
are then soothed by the shifty-eyed moon
that bathes them with their silvery moonlight
secretly wishing to rest 
in its warm bosom

but come morning
it gives in to the aubade 
of the warm clasp of the wind
and there it goes,
following the wind
in a wink.


They say prayer cleanse your soul
but the mention of your conversation with God
will make their heads turn and eyes roll.

I say my prayer twice a day,
I go to church to absolve my sins
and redeem my faith in the light
the pristine light of the church,
laced with love and laughter.
But I see an abandoned nest
curious to know the meaning of life
I pranced further,
and saw the broken egg by the window frame.

How sacred is the egg when it's broken?

Does it still hold the secret of life
and the mysteries,
or lose it all of a sudden?

My body disguised as a prayer
with its bent back and stooped shoulder
sits in the pew
and asks for forgiveness.

To redeem my soul
it seeks salvation,
while the yellow yolk is dripping
life losing its meaning again
on the gelid church floor.


Nothing sits silently
on the edges of darkness
even the fleeting wings of the wind
leaves indelible marks on
the underbelly of crimson maple leaves

Everything is anointed by the silence
even the thin blade of the grass
encumbered by the frozen tears of the winters
dies a muted death

Nothing is ever lost in time
as it neatly stores the memories in its crevices
like the damp leaves sunken 
on the floor of the black forest
once donning the mighty
bough of that boisterous chestnut
now carrying the stench in their hearts

Nothing is left untouched
even the dying serrated ends of my
white lilies in the bright crimson vase
have tasted the nectarine
a sweet touch of togetherness;
clutched in the warm supple fingers of my lover

Nothing remains unscathed
even the bare outline on the drying bench
after the downpour,
carries the sweet remembrance
of our love and its evanescence.

Oblivion is a word foreign to nature.

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