wednesday, 25th june

13:00. A white and blue steamer bobs slightly. Abandoned. Through the blast of chill, I can see her face. Eyes shut. Breathes rusty. Anchored close to a supposition I know nothing about. A love. To whoever classified the living and the non living- you were wrong. Didn’t you hear how on afternoons like this, when the storm is real, even metal grows a heart, assumes a life of its own?

I am drenched. Fabrics push themselves against the skeleton. The heat around my thighs is teething. I want to unravel myself into every flower out there. Let the rain tattoo every inch of me. Stem and stigma. And salt skin. Flat faceless masses of kochuripana float downstream. Torn apart by the current. Unite. There is no shore. No song. Not to my left. Not to my right. Suspended precariously in the uneven light, I sit on a wet wooden bench. Strain my eyes through the savage dance. Find nothing. Right here in the middle of nowhere. Unmoored.

The skies are grey. The river is grey. And fat grey droplets swallow us whole. And the grey expands. On the retina, this film appears so grainy. And I know there will be no sleep tonight. The graininess will jump out from crevasses of memory and punish me. Strike straight at my lungs. In an indiscernible fluorescence, I will sketch the arch of your back. Rub sand paper all over. And begin again.

Wait to bleed.

1:00. Waterlogged streets. The rain runs its green tongue over bulbous halogens, up along poles painted with aluminium. And smells of fish. I still think of floating. Bearing-less.

I sometimes wonder if you are a meteor. The way you had crashed into my daylight and set me on fire. The mirror has been removed. It stands at the far end of the corridor now. Spiders spin spittle in her silvery cracks. Outside trees bend. Mostly obtuse. Pipes are ripe with deluge. Arteries draw redness inside. Contract. In between sleep and sleeplessness, there hangs another state. Sometimes I have to bruise my face in the pillow. But I have never touched myself.

Instead I have chosen to wait for you.

©Mohana Das

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11 thoughts on “unmoored

  1. ah, that waiting can be so hard…especially in a world where self gratification has such a hold…
    so many people stuck making themselves happy…robbing them of the intimacy
    and intensity of finally coming together.

  2. oh it can be so tough to wait but def. worth it… esp. when we wait for someone with all our heart and soul it’s difficult to focus on other things – sometimes it helps until the time is ripe

  3. What a surprising and powerful ending to this, Mohana. I love the poetic details in this narrative poem. And I do wish you could send some of that rain over here. We are in such drought in the western US

  4. Such a sense of being thoroughly tied up, even in the haunting, graceful description of unmoored. Each of those feelings fought for supremacy each time I re-read the topography of your piece.

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