Saturday, 4 October 2014

You know you should have said something.

The coming day pulls flesh over eyes
like sheep skin.
The strobes mock us,
"What of the night
disapppoints you?"
But my mouth disappoints me too.
It falls prey to its own ministrations,
Child to its own lies.
I have heard a dozen or so
voices tonight; they tell me
the same condolences.
If our mouths had lives of their own,
would their offsprings be as cowardly?

Sunday, 25 May 2014

Definitions, or something akin to them

I do not open these boxes anymore;
My heart has nothing left to see.

Feel the enclosure of my hand
That is colder than the phrase

"You and me," the pronoun "us"
A far call to the gods.

In this earth, we are forced into words.
The entirety of ourselves - existent, breathing,

Tangible - packaged into letters
That spell nonsense. Most of the time.

"You" pron., resident of the memory;
"Me" pron., a somber amnesiac.

"Us" pron., a regret, or might-have-been;
Something one keeps in boxes.

Friday, 16 May 2014

Phone Calls at 9 PM

These are the people who write about death:
the red-eyed waif with a cut on her cheek,
the old lady reading today's paper,
the man laughing amid the crowd.

How can a phone call change anything?
The tendrils of your head are in waves now.
I know you'd hate it if we put "Angel"
on your tombstone in bold, tactless letters,

Like how I hated it when you borrowed my dolls.
Will you sit beside me tonight
and hear me asking for forgiveness?
I can almost feel the flapping of your wings.

There is a black slab of penitence
on my chest; my mother pinned it on
with trembling hands. I held them
the way I held yours in the last slumber

I shared with you.

Wednesday, 26 February 2014

On the topic of departure while on departure

I used to think, "This is where I leave you -"

after the last shop closes,
behind the Russian hum of traffic,
by the tactfulness of non-speech.
The departure is easier
when contact is a grazing of the skin
or a glance (or two.)

Everything happens around silence.
The echo of your feet softens
as the distance between you and me grows
and the slump of your shoulder
is no longer as timid.

Everything happens around silence.
Your hands know less of shaking
and you are neither the wonder of words
nor of the world, anymore.

Everything happens around silence.
My feet know less of following
and yours can only walk faster.

Everything happens around silence -
everything but the departure.

Friday, 31 January 2014

Dance Lessons

The spring of her feet
defies mortal laws.
There is nothing
more beautiful than her flight.

What does she do
with no wings, no magic?
Around her waist,
a halo of hard tulle.

She says they hurt -
the curl of her toes,
the bend of her feet,
the arch of her back.

So I told her once:
I would like to know
your pain. Hold me fast
against the pull of the earth.