samedi 30 janvier 2016
Please, no more sighing eyes-- instead
let’s run away to Rajasthan, imagine:
dusty candy-bar wrappers smearing sand.
--will we forget ourselves by morning?
whirling just enough, smog-steeped
snakebite throbbing on your neck &
imagine: it’s my venom.
How long do we have left? After
sunrise splits our bones to feed its fire,
will you still trust me?
fading desert dance-partner I thought
could be you-- my Sheherezade, ours
before abandoned dawn sneaks across
a single grey hair, light-singed pink.
And your hands find my breast, coax out poems,
until the world wakes & we pretend not to know each other,
except on mountains,
mercredi 1 avril 2015
Some people say the universe is expanding. Some people say that its breathing, stuck somewhere in the lungs of infinite space.
“You’re looking older,” says someone else, sitting on the floor forgetting who you are. “I remember when…”
And are we really that much older, after a few more eyelashes flutter open and shut? What happened to that breath we were born with?
dimanche 29 mars 2015
It’s getting harder to remember the feeling of sunlight on skin, motorcycle breezing up a dusty hill, past a shuddering bus and a woman selling neera already gone with the afternoon. Here, the sun is cold and grey and the motorcycles are so polished, no kicking pieces trying to escape in the wind. No seashell cemeteries where wild peacocks shed their feathers one by one, no frothy sugarcane juice by the side of the road. Just the low-resolution memories humming around an empty mind, a foreign language crippling what there is to be said, is there anything to be said after dark? The sun’s setting later and later, but what good does that do us if it’s cloudy all day? And in the arms of someone else, a yet-unknown loneliness—in between love’s ribs, there’s empty space expanding, devouring the rest. Where do we go from here? Papers to grade, papers to write, and what good are they without the hands that write them? Nobody here has hands anymore. Machines selling coffee, washing dishes, renting cars, making tables and chairs to furnish the void. The threads attached to my remaining ribs pull incessantly towards him. He once told me it was nine thousand kilometers, but to me it’s nine hours in a closed airplane flying over countries I’ve never visited next to people I’m not sure I want to meet. So until something snaps—either the threads or my ribcage— I’ll try to imagine Sisyphus happy, carrying furniture up the stairs until his wrists give way, eating breakfast in the morning like almost everyone else.