So here is 'Anagapesis' which was published in The Literary Nest. I also have another poem 'Radhika' in Lakeview journal. Putting both of these below.
They say that it happens. Most of them
in their old wisdom told me that it does.
That the cells of the body lose the sense
of affection for someone they once loved.
That one unfeels. That passion turns to apathy.
Perhaps it is a desired state. A happy state.
If apathy is happy. Perhaps I could tell you
ten years later. Make that twenty. If
anagapesis is messy. If it bleeds. If it stops
halfway. Or if it is a clean aseptic cut
that I can anaesthetise. The cells of my body
don't really believe in anagapesis. That a complete
lack of affection can ever happen.
A-na-ga-pe-sis. Long word. It is a difficult word
to remember. It is easy to forget it. A-na-ga-pe-sis.
I am terribly afraid of it. Perhaps, I secretly
don't even want it to happen.
Link to 'Anagapesis' in The Literary Nest is here.
Barbie dolls were just dolls but she was my live six month old baby gifted by my aunt in America.
I begged my mother and aunty for old baby clothes to dress her in.
In vain, I tried to neaten her short auburn hair that wouldn’t be made.
She was always there at every game I played.
From age – to twenty two, yes I took her to college too where they called her Chucky, my poor baby.
At home I tried to rescue her from a maid’s daughter who drew inky designs on her face and a cousin brother who threw her and broke her now re-stitched arm.
In later years, I tried to name the blue-eyed baby Robin but it never stuck.
At twenty two, I gave her away. Now she stares back at me with only one eye.
Every girl has her most precious baby and her most precious doll.
Everyone has a childhood and mine is now surely lost, as surely as the other blue eye.
Link to 'Radhika' in Lakeview Journal is here. The poem is on page 174 of this biannual international journal.