By Benazir Elahee Munni

Jet lag is a poor excuse when, after five months and
counting,
I lie awake at night, knowing somewhere, across the Atlantic,
my loved ones are having their morning tea.

I lie awake because half my torso is awkwardly dangling
 from the mattress onto the floor,
a thing unimaginable from my home’s high, sturdy wooden
bed.

I cannot seem to sleep because somewhere else,
I could open the window without freezing to death,
but now my eyes feel too dry;
the heater is running at twenty-five degrees.

Somewhere, in a romanticised land,
I once slept peacefully beside my dadi,
but I could only shed a few tears on a screen,
when her body was laid to its final rest;
I wasn’t there.

Outside, the stars are not hazy with smog here;
I can see the clear night sky,
but as I look up, my eyes are a puddle again,
and the stars are gone. 

I wake up to an inaudible alarm here.
Nightmares.
I would prefer my phone ringing instead;
alarmingly, there is no need for that anymore, it seems.

I lie awake because my tummy revolts at my cooking;
there is something wrong with my chicken,
sitting in the fridge for a week.
I cannot blame the food anymore.

I have started meal-prepping, you see,
but even with the right spices my mom cooks with,
I am lacking so many ingredients…
It tastes dull.

As I toss and turn in my bed,
my mind drifts to a land made only of illusions, hopes, and
ideas,
perhaps more beautiful in my head alone.

And as I lie awake,
jet lag feels like a poor excuse
for why I cannot rest.