The word in her mouth is a cluster of sharp consonants
she whispers m k and t, compresses her heart in a.
Brown of her iris folds the prism of evening light that splinters
as the birds in her garden escape the slant of the song. She has learned
to pare down the heartbeat of the city to a monochrome of white light
where she sits turning the rosary bead. Her mouth moves in prayer,
her tongue runs along the soft palate, the molars extracted after years
of the root canal: it is a soft mound like the grave at the edge of the village
she saw him dig. Her breasts produced the extra ounce of milk
at every childbirth to be squeezed into the mouth filled with soil.
What would mark the slowness of time
as the daylight spreads like the dust of chalk, moves with the bees
on the terrace?
I hear the sharp call of parakeets
from the branches of the mango tree that grows from the seed she spits
a summer afternoon holding the fruit like a bowl of sex.
She floats near the ceiling the days he keeps away
visiting the dancer who peregrinates the temple
like an exquisite sea animal.
Bluest light pools the craters gutted in the womb
ejecting the uterine wall. She quivers at the interface with earth –
hard mantle collapses and the softness of love leavens his departure.
She sits at the edge of the tide, the sky
bleaches the folds of her neck. The flowers in the skirt
deceptive take colors from the house. She fashions a tunic
tasseled with strands of time when every event takes a step back.
As the weight of emptiness rests on the rosewood chair
her mind drops into the silenced bowl of the day.
The clock hands tremble with particles of constancy: the clover
fragrant in the smoked fish on the counter, the dust in air
fed by flecks of coal hefted from the stove as corn fobs
gyrate in the squall of hunger. The tongue of the Pandanus flower bears
the language of the silenced deity, she slices the rosette of curse
weaves the fragrant strand in her hair to stitch the gash of shame.
Breasts can hang like a pouch upturned if unencumbered.
The tension of the nerves, the muscles cradle the energy of desire as
he arches his ache upward in an abandon of dance.
The kayak floats over the nautilus in the churn of time when no wind
blows from the other lands. He loops around my legs for a day
in a lazy embrace. When shadows mark the horizon
like a hermit crab that senses tremors in the sand he recoils
into the calcified memory of the earth. The waves
proliferate stories of our origins. As the evening turns amber
like the roots we brew, the bottom of the stone tub swirls in clouds
with the shapes of people we identify: many of them fell to diseases
to save us. The sand is pregnant with the lost ones
the flair of the womb mirrors the dead child I buried
when the tongue of the sun gouged the sea into a tsunami.
To be a good person is to carry the luggage all time
watch the shoulder sag under the bags just when you have cleared
the window to see the dew fall off a leaf, the sun curl in the space
Because you cannot crawl down the cave streaked with the feral matter
the tale of cosmology gathers in the line under the eyes,
cups the breeze stirred by the flight of bats. The traces that exist
are the arms of delusion.
A line of ants ambles over the rump of clay in a journey
where there is no place to arrive. You want to open
the door, slot the key into the hole of possession. How easy
to give that away by lying face down
feet waving in the air, grasping torques of amber light.
The soft pouches of tissues like bags of coins slump along the path
with missteps too late to correct, the metaphor in the throat
falls through with black ash.
Matter shifts in shape, moves along the thin line of time
in a hospital ward folded in the crispness of departure. The awning is drawn
taut to gather particles of sun from the face as the smell of paper
is wasted on the foliage of trees.
It takes two hands to clap
silence languishes in a vacuum.
She presses her elbows on the table
gets up to leave, a spring flows calmly
across her face as fury wrecks me red.
The seasons unfurl in her chest
monsoon curls the edges of her hair
that flutter in lazy scrolls
the skin on her waist a gentle turmeric
in the moistness of summer.
I knock around the cave of her silence
fly above the landscape of her stillness
scan the contours of her body dip and rise
as I hold breath at the nine gateways
in an attempt to douse the fire.
She is the water drop on a lotus leaf
no grease marks on the stove
clothes folded away, dishes rinsed
on the sink. Being born afresh
is like dying in the right sense.
Just before dark
the tree stood in clear light
I could almost see
what lay across the fence
when you left
could see a part of me go with you
a part of you stay with me.