• Lammergeier Staff

99° Fahrenheit | Kavi Kshiraj

Updated: Sep 22, 2019



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

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