flat is one of my much loved words. flat plains of the Ganga. flat boron-breasted skies. flat screen TVs. then there is the flat i hate. the one that reminds me of frozen claustrophobia, stacked into ugly cubes.
i also love caldera.
my best friend speaks in a tongue no one else does. (i feed him random lists on rainy noons.) his words tickle my backbone. he says i must laugh more often. “i have bombs in place of alveoli. shut up and pick me a flower.”
he plucks me an ode. i wear it in my purple hair, behind my ear.
“get more piercings,” he says. on most days i hate him.
on others, i teach him to spell c-a-l-d-e-r-a. afterwards we swim, infinity swirling wet around our ankles. fish-like. almost fish-like. these are the days when the skies are flat, boron-breasted. he sings me patchwork songs underwater and the jealous sky strums her flat sternum into oblong waves.
but sometimes i love him too.
pomegranates burst, expelling sticky redness on the secrecy of quiet lanes. i tell him how much i’d love to visit Anatolia. the withheld boredom in his eyes shifts, perches on the hollow of my neck.
immediately, i quaver.
somewhere over his shoulder, a tiny star catches fire.
This is the first of a series of poems. Read the other two here: