on this side of the phone

“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.

©Mohana Das

This is the second of a series of poems. Read the other two here:

Part I: from the corner of my eye
Part III: in a heartbeat


13 thoughts on “on this side of the phone

  1. This is beautiful, Myrna, even though one tries to humor oneself, the emotional wear can be too much. I can feel this one..love the dusting off of promises and the Anatolia fading in your palms.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s