1 .
the shell of riverwater, slick with lamplight.
2 .
moon-swollen morphemes fit like
strangers against red, bright tongue.
i become unspeakable, tangible.
breath is the wrong language.
i am rain-glutted and shaking in my dreams,
the sun swallowed into open line of throat.
i am ash and clothed bone.
like calls to like. the equator traces my mouth,
hot and gleaming, asking unanswerable questions.
3 .
my fingers are buried in stilled, cracking land,
shudder-dark with the ache of preservation.
i am trying to keep things alive.
4 .
pale light shifts between shutters,
a paring knife slipping across
insubstantial skin.
in a story, my body is soft, pliant copper
yielding under the mirage of her hands.
the right language is placed in the space
against the jasmine-sharp of our bare teeth,
and my palms are stained with sun-kilned loam.
there is a life yoked to my eyelashes.
5 .
in my dreams, there are ashes and
dust spilled at an unlit river,
and it is a homecoming.
we tell the story until
my mouth is equator-dry.
i am trying to keep things alive.
Kavi Kshiraj is a queer, Indo-American poet found in New Jersey. They spend time on hobbies such as writing, mythology, and their various identity crises.
Twitter: @klytaimestra
Instagram: @klytaimestra
Tumblr: @kavikshiraj