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Blindness

(originally published in the Lindenwood Review and nominated for the Pushcart Prize)

Tonight you open the soles of my feet

And rise in the capillary tubes of my bones

The grains of years drawn on them like circles

You keep rising to the deserts

And blind silken winds meet

The woman under your iris

Slow stones turn on their backs

And blood from an elephant tooth

Filters past my tissues into the four chambers

The first has a blue baby licking the molten thumb of fire

A bird flies in another, with surprise grating its wings,

Into hollows of unknown nights

Smouldering fires cook my blood in cauldrons of straw

And it crackles in the straight capillaries you rise in

To lock your eyes into mine

And we go blind

 
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Love Resides in These Too

Gossamer- the finest thread, sometimes

The first discovery of the day;

Perception starts from it and spreads.

The holder of water and life

The spider’s gift to the garden

The summer’s thin belief, floating

Freely between the silent love

Of the morning and things.

You will breathe it in, odorless

And it will stick to your form, invisible

It will be there every morning waiting for you


Inglenook- the earth’s place in the Solar System

The perfect distance between things that sense

And things that incite

An old man’s comfort, a fire man’s despair

A circle in a campfire, a straight line in a fireplace

But solace nevertheless. We live because we

Know it will sometime be our place before

We leave the inglenook and enter the fire


Penumbra- the cast-off lightness of things

The body splitting in a joyous dance into

The many arms and hands of a goddess

The hidden meanings of life trying to take shape

Falsities along with the opaque truth

It is always there waiting at the margins

To engulf the whole shadow in its luminous halo


Petrichor- the smell of earth after rain


A taker to the unremembered and hidden.

It is minuteness hovering like a bee

Heralding the love that imbues the

Water with the soil. Energy flows

Out of the elements, enters us.

The smell changes into colour.

We see we are green, slowly ripening


Lagoon- a rare island of water

You can imagine it even if you’ve never seen it

It reflects like all water, it wears robes of ripples,

Hides its hazards, spreads out life like its own form,

Cajoles us into living, then makes

Us fall, only to find that it is not alone,

That we are not alone

 
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Waiting for the Festival of Lights

 

Unearthing: A Poem

Published in Kitaab

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