Spoils

See?
I told you he would still be here.
And he is,
look at him.

Harmonies lock into place,
skin is against skin.
silence, and the contrast of hues
in the morning because
it's the only time you can actually see.

See?
His mouth yawns open
and pulls shut.

Are we afraid of this light?
Hunger is only ever in the dark.
It's that foolish fear of seeing a feast when you've been starving for so long.
In the light you cannot crunch on the bones,
and rub your fingers slick with oil over your starving skin.
Some feasts are only by the night.

Can you feel this microchasm underneath your touching skins?
The morning's made you soft.
The hungry are never weak,
maybe because they've lost the ability
to speak.

It's hard, in their eyes,
and you can only see it in the dark.
They will cut into the bloody carcass
and shod their fingers with blood.

It's too late to be squeamish:
Don't fear the vultures,

You too feast in the dark.

God no go vex

God never go vex,

So this matter we dey take do long,

e no hia.

god never go vex,

the way you position your thigh,

I swear give you,

he never go vex.

Check like pajamas be the movement.

as you dey wan take time,

i never go vex.

This one no fear dey inside,

no be anything i take do you.

we base,

that one god no go vex.

Homeless

Strange that I have no poetry for you.

None.

I have refused to write it.

I haven’t felt the need to.

And maybe,

I would claim this is fear,

But I know it’s a lie.

And so your box is empty,

Because maybe, I don’t want to remember

this place.

School

Need to reach another plane.

You know how I mean.

Needs to feel like I’ve learned something.

Hair, is fine.

Chuckle, swear.

Don’t tire yet. Lesson’s far from over.

Oh, it’s delicious.

Aren’t you full?

Still hungry?

Teach the contours,

Covers and surfaces.

Scientific names of flora and fauna.

Blossoming, open.

Crying tears of satiation in the summer.

Hot, blankets. It’s sweaty, here.

Wild in here like a jungle.

Dark and light.

Your vision is so blurry it’s clear.

Laugh in breaths out of your nose.

Lament, demand.

Nobody ever watered the earth just once.

A Different History

Great Pan is not dead;

he simply emigrated

to India.

Here, the gods roam freely,

disguised as snakes or monkeys;                                     5

every tree is sacred

and it is a sin

to be rude to a book.

It is a sin to shove a book aside

with your foot,                                     10

a sin to slam books down

hard on a table,

a sin to toss one carelessly

across a room.

You must learn how to turn the pages gently            15

without disturbing Sarasvati,

without offending the tree

from whose wood the paper was made.

Which language

has not been the oppressor’s tongue?             20

Which language

truly meant to murder someone?

And how does it happen

that after the torture,

after the soul has been cropped                        25

with a long scythe swooping out

of the conqueror’s face –

the unborn grandchildren

grow to love that strange language.

By: Sujata Bhatt

Imperator

I have conquered the conqueror.

His knees will buckle for me.

The near-imperator is at my behest:

He will fall to his knees and hail me.

Prayer

Spill,

Spill and tell

Your index finger to bring destiny.

When it moves, we will not breathe.

Spill and fill,

this aching jar

with silken milk.

Hold my hand as we break this sacrosanct vase.

Put your bare feet into this earth.

Make a libation of this milk.

Psychiatrist

What’s a dead body got?

lips that rust purple, even when the skin is black as coal.

slit wrists, split skull,

can you stomach it?

or has it got, 

wounds that will re-open,

voodoo jangling all over it,

little altars, 

dead tears of libation to a thousand tiny gods.

Has it got a bullet?

Yes? tell me the size.

was the assassin decent?

did he use stainless steel so it wouldn’t rust?

or did the bullet shoot through clean,

and run away from death.

and maybe, if he died from alcohol,

it’s still on his stale breath,

like that man you kissed in his dark bed.

so tell me, my dear,

when he sat in that bathtub and pulled the trigger,

do you think he knew the answer to his question?

A dead body’s got no love,

I’ll tell you that.

The man

The little man against the wall,

everything about him is little.

Yet he fills his fingers with flesh,

and opens sleepy slit eyes as his lips extend forward.

His greed, there’s something about it.

Perhaps, because it’s for you.

Which shouldn’t be enough, 

but you take it and you dont know why.

This little man, with his searching eyes,

and non-existent smile.

He is the pinnacle,

of this disconnected confusion.

His fingers hold more that they can fit

and you? what about your wretchedness?

Let’s hope you didnt come to this wall looking for repair,

maybe you got superglue, instead of surgery, 

and you walk stiffly, gingerly, because everything is broken,

and it’s being held together by cheap. shitty glue.

What were you hoping to find in this greed?

Didnt you know you abandoned all hope when you came to this place?

Barter

You ser,

Yesser,

What can we do for you?

We see your limp, 

Your legs are weak,

so here’s a crutch for you.

Yesser, you sir,

Can you walk,

or do you limp

now that you have

something to lean on?

Good ser,

Our work’s done here ser,

but dont forget,

it rots.

No laquer 

nor turpentine,

will save this fickle wood.

It will rot ser, 

we dont replace ser,

best learn to walk straight.

Llopis

I thought of you when the leaves fell,

and the snow took your place. 

I thought of you when the rain fell,

and the earth oozed petrichor.

Whenever I couldn’t remember,

I thought of you.

I think of you, 

and i feel my feet wet, burning with booze.

I think of you,

and the string of waist beads that you would have torn

off my waist,

The chuckle you would have given

when you heard the first bead break.

I will think of you,

when i return to places I have never been.

and hold strange beers to my lips.

when the air is cold,

I will remember your aversion to heat,

and our shared chuckle that never happened.

I will think of you,

even when I cannot remember.

I will think of you,

When there’s nothing left to think.

Untitled

And you have barred the entrance,

yet soiled the doors.

Is there any point, 

to pretending this is not desecration?