an apple//autumn

At dusk these days, the sky is an apple. Clouds of dust have settled down. Rheumy mists discreetly entangle themselves on the trunks of sycamores, hang like scallops from the earlobes of the atmosphere. Perception has become a dizzying blush.

Sometimes I run my fingers on its firmness, and I stop at the blemishes, yellow and scabrous- think of the flesh beneath, wonder if the wounds are too deep to birth rivers sub rosa. A cut at the core cradles in its kind nook the seeds of continuity. When I exhale, the carbon dioxide is heavy with hope again.

Leaves unpin themselves, float in the crispness of detachment. My hair is papery, fanning out against a sickle-shaped star. The earth pats her tectonic plates. The red is a luscious gloss, plump cheeks swell with smoothness. No one talks of sin.

From the shade, a snake heaves a cathartic sigh and is gone.

Linked to D’verse MTB The things we see

Today, it is Monday and I want to be waking up with you.

Look — look at all the ways I shake. Look, I want to be good at this. I’m reaching for your hands and you tell me that you’re an earthquake just waiting to happen. I make a list of things I’d rip my stomach open just to do to you:

Take off your clothes and put them back on again. Kiss you awake in the mornings and in the evenings and at three a.m. when the nightmares come tumbling back into our bed. Meet your parents just to tell them that they’ve made a piece of art. Leave your house and take you to the dirtiest parking lot we can find, talk trash about the people that have hurt us both. Kiss you when you start to cry. Kiss you when the moon is full. Kiss you when my mind is empty. Kiss you with the TV screaming white noise in the background, just kiss you, just kiss you all the time.

Look — I’m bad at being loved because the feel of it is like a heart that doesn’t fit right in my chest. Some days I think I will be a cemetery for your touch. Some days I think I will start a war, all for you.

Look — I could be this. All this tender, this open and raw, I could get you inside me like a disease. Be my now, be my tomorrow. Be my five years in a bed we both own. Be my wedding night. Be my testament. Be the dirt they lay on my grave, but baby — let it still be you.

Let it always be you.

D.A.S, Backshelf Poetry


“big blue cat has a nose-ring!” two little dirty feet scamper straight into a polymer sky.

I sigh.

# pick lego bricks off my skin.
# pick crayon bits off my skin.
# pick stick figures off my skin.

“big blue cat has orange wings!” the duvet flies high. green. greener against a polymer sky.

I sigh.

# snip nettles off my brain.
# snip dreams off my brain.
# snip fatigue off my brain.

“you know, big blue cat can make it rain?” comics dance insane upon a polymer sky.

I sigh.

# bundle conscience in my chest.
# bundle peace in my chest.
# bundle myself in my chest.

and sigh.

“look hun, up up and up I fly!”

©Mohana Das

Linked to D’verse Meeting the Bar, List Poetry


untamed yellow thorn creeps over an abandoned bed. she threw her ballet shoes in the bin. all she wears now is a defaced womb that bleeds most days.

his heart is a triangle of newsprint. Kargil ’99. some chewed off tribune’s orphaned page. rain lacquers with moss shared metres of checkered floor now.

even the pinned butterflies have left.

You have access in my bone and existential structure.[…] Which means you are inside of me in a way no one is or shall ever be. Don’t ask me how I know that. My senses belong passionately to you; you are in me as the relaxing shower drops touch gently my skin; you are in me as the sea waves echo when they crush the beach rocks. You are in me when I lie – as I do now- in bed, paralyzed by the sluggish, dull rhythm of life. You are the air in me delightfully nourishing my small brain, so crammed with unusual perplexities.You are in me like a stillborn pain refusing to be washed off. You are in me like the sun’s spots of quivering light merged with whirling blood and flesh. You are in me in these supposed to be “poetical” corny lines. And I know it will never be enough. I live with knowing that in a way which is not profound anymore; In a cruel, real, remorseless way of no return. How pathetic – I live with solely that.

-Frida Kahlo, “You are me”

and the river went her way

Fireflies had their hearts torn out. Carcasses lay bobbing on crescendos. We had a pockmarked sky. We had stars that had burnt out.

My hands were seaweeds.

Sometimes when the rain falls hesitant on my vertebrae, I stuff my screams in time and knit nostalgia. From the walls of my arteries, all those old songs you sung to me late night recall themselves with their meanings misplaced. Music drips like wax on the roots of my hair. Our silence smolders the limitlessness between us.

I wait for him to reclaim my soul.

Quietly the darkness rises. Quietly I float in the depths of Lethe.

It was a night of storms when he took back his promise and left.