By: Devika Mathur
Liquids like solids, all rotating beneath my belly.
A sonogram of soft ripples.
A doctor’s quiet visit on my body,
To treat me of my sickness,
A sickness that stuffs my mouth of the moon.
You see me,
You see a florescent night, sticking on the wall.
Aching/ sleeping/ chanting
Beneath the waters of hushed hands.
I am liquid, a liquid crack.
I find this moonlight mysterious.
Crescent curve of white froth.
I squint my eye,
To collect a trace of her melting blood.
It is opaque in my mind,
Shallow in my hand.
I could bite my lip each day sitting near the windowsill
To see her changing phases.
To see her collecting nocturnal chants
Under my body of God.
I sit & rub this wild air under my earlobe,
A whimper of soft loss of something.
This pervasiveness of things.
Like a necklace of walls.
I sit like a lotus often,
In solids and squares too.
Creating illusions of holding moonlight like an earring.
Sliced orange air.
A temperature drop in my naval.
Like a poet vanishing into the stench of a sea.
With words eaten & gulped.
Where did it go?
Things eat each thing like a murder.
This purple hue of the moon watches,
A slow death happening to me,
A slow, futile, inexplicable twitch occurring.
The pupil commutes like a castle. Soft yet fragile.
What is it, I wish for?
What is that light so pungent?
Bound, flexible so wild.
As if I am a hoax of sustenance.
I watch it combining and detonating.
Bio: Devika Mathur
Two Drops of Ink: The Literary Home for Collaborative Writing