I DO NOT KNOW MUCH ABOUT LOVE
but i type your name on
my first attempt at Wordle every morning
even though there aren't enough vowels
in it to appease my appetite for language
the economy of language at breakfast,
you see, is a lot like wartime rationing
when one is this heroically lonely,
almost martyrish— but not quite
i snort a few white lines from the newspaper:
the ethos of a cigarette butt
that had burnt a bridge is parallel
to a Grecian nose that has succumbed
to twenty-first century rhinoplasty
the horoscopes are always catastrophic:
monotony is an epidemic in fashion–
everybody moves through the city
infected yet unaffected;
nameless oval flowers sprout
during odd equinoxes from
between the envelopes of concrete
people name flowers to become god,
but they are only a dying one at best
everyone who has soles on their feet
walks on the gravel and
orphaned flowers in reconnaissance
humour a horizon of pulp and prayers
where the roots cling to their grave;
their home is now short of one letter.
you're the only man with soles on his feet
who has always jumped over
—not cosmically rather consciously–
to avoid what has now become
the funeral of flowers
the Chile-shaped birthmark on your shin
is as long as its coast on my atlas is
and your lashes remind me
of the violin strings of the violin
in the 7th grade that I never played;
this constant human need to find
familiarity in the new is agonizing
and yet
i look for your rib among mine,
for specks of my dirt under your nails–
you are clawing away at my loneliness
i may not know much about love
but my bellybutton sommersaults
every time you laugh aloud
at my corny jokes about maize
every morning,
with the symphony
of teeth-whitening strips around my gums,
'AUDIO' and 'ADIEU'
would have to wait;
your name may not be on Wordle's list,
but you are the only dictionary i've ever read
from one cover to the next.
BETWEEN HERE AND HEAVEN
o firdous
you've become the tailbone of my memory
"the waves, listen to the waves"
the apple of your mouth ripens
the half moons under your eyes
smile and sing
on the metro
there's an old couple sitting next to me
with three pairs of teeth between them
i think about the ladybug dress
that bites your thighs
under the overbridge
the beggars cough coins
and a butcher sells meat the gods do not like
i buy some just in case you'd by drop by–
an exercise in banality
but hope persists even when bled dry
my colleague
with a flamboyance only the elderly have advises me on health insurance;
already an afterthought in my armpits,
it will sweat away gradually
the L of your elbow hangs
from my bedroom ceiling
o firdous
you've become the tailbone of my memory
"what is that stink?"
alarmed, my spine stretches,
a mass kneads my belly
can he smell my armpits?
has my skin barfed out insurance already?
why is the AC not working
"is it the meat from downtown?
he does it like no other!"
the lard curdles my eyes
o firdous
the barren sky
against your teething outline is all i see
WHEN YOU ARE 18 LIFE FEELS LIKE IT IS TYPED IN ALL-CAPS
so many languages are left
for a tongue to taste and speak
when it is eighteen
even a bird flightless clinging to
the softened underbelly of desire
dilutes the vacuun of a starless sky
boygenius lyrics seem
to scratch that hairy patch
in the hollow of the spine where
nails cannot commute just fine
jelly pricked summer skin
humours starving boys
the foam between their lips
an unwarranted pedagogy
when you are eighteen life feels
like it is typed in all-caps
there is always enough white bread
to eat with friends
or an underpass on the outskirts
a grain on the map of the city
waiting to be rediscovered
every ketchup sachet
comes with an inside joke
every mouth kissed is
a sun devoured whole
the smell of morning light
burning blinding forgiving
endless endless
About the Poet:
Words are central to Srishti's identity, yet when it comes to describing herself, language feels like an elusive tool. Currently awaiting allocation to college, Srishti has spent the summer of being eighteen doing all that she knows how to — eat, read, write, and love.