the window folds itself
curling like an bird
on the chest of a fading sky

“remember the hours you’d paint
sonnets upon my breast,” i had asked
shimmering closer to
your eyes, “while a thousand tremors
shook forests of dusk?”

we were hungry, caterpillar-ish,
but you would rather i left
my hair uncombed, my earlobes empty
for you to sing your heart in-

but then Fevrier-
the way she snapped down the veil,
“…so scared,” i heard my consonants fall,
and the moon shouting, distraught,
your tongue left codes all over-
“don’t leave-”

“there has to be sleep,” you crooned,


when i answered to light
there were scars- all septic-
and they had tagged me (a)live.

©Mohana Das

Linked to D’verse


9 thoughts on “#069

  1. Absolutely stunning write, Mohanna, that left me with questions about the scars (septic?) For me it felt like there was some sort of transition between ecstasy and pain. ;m familiar with fevrier as February in French but want to understand more about it in this context. This is a poem that begs to be studied, not just read…but your voice does come through. You are one whose voice is quite distinct (and stunning).

    • Thanks for your comment, Victoria. I always look forward to it.
      About the scars, I was trying to mean that on the outside things might appear healed, but on the inside everything has turned septic.
      As for Fevrier, I had nothing special in mind other than the cruel, cold weather and somehow Fevrier sounded better than February.

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