National Poetry Writing Month, Day 9: French Bakeries

I have been dreaming lately
of perfect breakfasts
in white platters on oak tables
that stood the bombings
and are now remembered
as the battle ground of common people
who made it through their day.

I have been chasing
the aroma that escapes French bakeries
and travels eastwards with the gulf stream
it mixes with the burnt city air
and melts on my tongue with the rain.

They serve you crepes with Nutella
and Tulipes and Lemon-Berry Savarin
if you feel a little more colorful
You can order the blueberry violet eclairs
with the evening newspaper
the only teleportation device man ever made
with colourful page-3 exclusives
and an elaborate discussion about the gown
the queen chose to wear
for her grand daughter’s 41st birthday.

Every tool man ever designed
was merely an extension of himself
a bomb is not a misunderstood person
a fighter jet is a surgical tool
a flower is a detachable smile
and nuclear bombs are Christmas carols.

The café is now a warzone
a no man’s land laced with caramel and cocoa
poppy seeds are the dressing of choice
sourced from the great opium fields of Afghanistan
the shipment traveled through village streets
where people danced with death and syringes
in their own tabloids where they celebrate their own birthday
and eat in white bomb shells, picnics are optional.

I have been dreaming lately
of a time we can eat up our differences
and eat in French bakeries with people from the other side of the world
where they talk about more important things
than poems and letters and love.

Written by Peeyush Chauhan