Of heaven I have found
the word, loop.
That is a repetition of an event
Until I forget how your lips
Forgot the utterance of my name
makes me think singularity
Is the scariest truth. Loop: a queer
Innovation. We pick and choose
From a lineup, until
It is enough
It makes my heart stutter
And go wild. Heaven.
It is a feeling and I’ll stay here
Until it’s enough
-artwork by Ninad Sree
Somewhere you call out to the sea
as the sunlight creeps in
towards your legs.
You are the opposite of calm today. Fitting
on a hot summer day. Like today.
In between sweat and scents
you beckon to your loss.
Elsewhere I am lying filling an empty room
it is opposite the sea, perhaps in my dream.
You are here too. Looking for answers from
the sea; it is:
it’ll probably take time to respond.
and get up
patience is not my virtue.
Artwork by sarahmaxwellart.
Delhi wasn’t home anymore. It was a collection of ruins, now in a foreign country. They all had their own new scents. What was left was scattered with men and women who still had some memory of what the city looked like.
(And how it would melt on hot summer days and shiver in murmurs when it was cold. And on the rare days when it rained, a very few did anything.)
Somewhere they sat measuring the distance to home in starlight. And on nights when the clouds covered the sky and you couldn’t see the stars, they sat sobbing.
Delhi had but two moods. And I had experienced both.
The rest is all fiction. Stories of the sultanate and the kings and queens, of love. One is never sure. If stories that vanished to memory were ever true after all…
( I have been reading a lot again lately. And the most recent one is the City of Djinns by William Dalrymple, and because of my weird love hate relationship with Delhi, I cannot seem to stop reading this. If you like reading travel non fiction, this is a perfect book for you.)
On the day of moving, we clear
old bookshelves, wondering
which ones to give away
and which ones to keep
you reach out
stroke the back of my hair
and in passing, raise suspicison
on how things got where they are
I say nothing. Experimenting with my memory
I pick up a board of puzzles
you join in. again, sitting next to me
staring at my hands. I clear the dust.
It’s old. Really old.
I wonder how it got here.
I wonder if it has all its pieces.
and if not
which ones did it give away
and which ones did it keep.
artwork by daisukerichard