“my much loved words just underwent hysterectomy,” i tell him why there won’t be any more lessons and hang up.
outside, our magnolia tree is hurling curses at the cemetery of fish-bones below. i have given up swimming. winter crawls up my legs, marking his conquest with sharp canines. i am too tired to fight back. there on my face, my prized profusion of veins is already a sanctuary of thorns.
“get more piercings,” i humor myself. then try translating into a bird. a certain number from Bollywood plays itself in loops. our timelines stretch. halfheartedly, i will it to break but he won’t let go. on most days i hate him. the acridity of denial disfigures the boron-breasted sky. i suck in a jar of stale November air and try again.
the tiny star that had caught fire has long been ash.
it takes me hours to gather the anatomy of a particular ode. Anatolia quietly fades on my palms. i dust promises off the hollow of my neck, sigh at the mammoth newness of now empty nights, stow my blinking phone under my pillow and play sleep.
that sinking something inside my chest is yet to hit bedrock. fortunately, it does not have a name.
This is the second of a series of poems. Read the other two here: