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  • Writer's pictureLammergeier 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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