I boil the milk again,
Stir the coffee brutally
To bring up the froth above the rim.
I watch the creaminess
While it colour my lips.
Evening, with the bitterness of coffee
Still in my breath
I rub the stuck-on
Bubble remnants out of the cup,
Brutally with the scrubber.
At the window,
I wait the rain of weeks to withdraw,
And to get over
The heaps of unopened books.
I wait at the window,
Feeling like the bubbles of the froth
Desired in the morning
Trying to stick on through the day
To get wiped out at the dusk.

This entry was posted in Poetry on by .

About Fathima Manal

Dreams,fantasies,words and rhythm-other than skin,bones and muscles I am made up of these.With every drop of blood that my heart pumps,a new dream forms in me.With every breathe,i take the surroundings too inside me.And my poems are just the minute regurgitants of what i accumulate within. I am a doctor from Kerala,India,who should not be supposed to but is in deeply love with words and books more than medical books.Hope you enjoy my poems......

7 thoughts on “Froth

  1. amitapaul

    At the window I wait , I wait at the window : the poet as an observer of her own life , gives us a vivid glimpse into her day from dawn to dusk through the metaphor of a cup of coffee, where life appears as insubstantial and yet as bitter and fragrant as froth on top of one’s chosen brew of comfort and sustenance .

  2. Brindha Vinodh

    A metaphorically woven piece wherein the anguish and ambiguity of every-day life and that bitter-sweet ‘froth’ of sustenance are well captured


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