#111

my fingers are stained with tannin- “leave the windows open, will you?”- i can weigh the listlessness humming in the air, that scent of paraplegia- “what’s your name again?” the fork slides down the sponge, a burst of cherry bleeds through the chocolate; the saucer stares heedless through the teak, the brick. your hand on my trembling knees.

a spoon clatters. the scarcity of rain pounds against the sole of your mojris. the tea is ripe. if the floor upends, we will be two pendant lights- you brighter, ofcourse- and the bookshelves will open their tongueless mouths and gobble us whole. “what do they call this place now?” from the window, a foreign summer wafts in.

in a parallel world, i am writing you a drawing of the city that died. the cotton interweaves, my fingertips pucker; your eyes are shards of amethyst. “little blue bird has a magic bead,” i see your lips form words. you empty your pockets of stories as i sit, milky-eyed, licking a cantankerous sun.

©Mohana Das

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15 thoughts on “#111

  1. “if the floor upends, we will be two pendant lights- you brighter, ofcourse- and the bookshelves will open their tongueless mouths and gobble us whole.“…such words draw us completely in…a wonderful write….

  2. As much as I admire your poetry and the rich visuals you weave, I hate to say that not returning visits is not something we encourage from Dverse – so if you are not keen to visit, I suggest you don’t participate……

  3. “and the bookshelves will open their tongueless mouths and gobble us whole.” love that! and this, “you empty your pockets of stories as i sit, milky-eyed, licking a cantankerous sun.” Good stuff.

  4. “you empty your pockets of stories”—this is lovely…..as is the imagery of licking a cantankerous sun. You have such a way with words…really a unique voice 🙂

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