By: Devika Mathur

 

Liquids

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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.

A hope,

A daydream.

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.

 

 

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Moonlight

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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.

Confined,

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

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