the angle

of wing
to empty sky

all the things
I never
told you


The Ocean Never Lets Go

He walked slowly, for a god, even a minor god, but maybe he was
savouring the lights of Marine drive, strung low across the pelvis

of this throbbing city, rivalling the stars, the sea a fluid square of
denial between shimmering possibilities on an infinite graph. Is

there a word, I asked him, for when we run away from ourselves,
when everything has been left behind and yet everything is so far

ahead that it can never be reached. He watched the waves cresting
silver on the rocks. Look, he said, how the light mixes in the water,

how one wave leaves it behind for another, the ocean never lets go.
He was scampering down the rocks to scoop up the fallen light, the

night creeping up behind me, wrapping its arms around my waist,
everything is a new moon, in the sky, in the water, inside a word.


More poems in the “monologues with a minor god” series here.


I watch the sky swell, her arched grey belly birthing
rain without a womb, I too, I whisper to her, I too am

a mother, my grief is born at dusk each day from the
seed of emptiness, the darkness like a wet nurse, suckles

it at her breast, see how whatever is left of the moon
turns away, remembering. I think of your fingers wrapped

around a wish, around a promise, around a cry, love streaked
purple from the pressure of your grasp, how did it slip

away then, a lie, a life, a song? I walk barefoot to another
dawn, in my hand the glass slipper the night left behind.

Two Moons

Maybe it was the night we saw two moons
in the sky. Was it the sky holding a mirror to

itself, was it the sea surging back to where it
all began, was it the distance between us that

split the horizon in two? I have sun seeds in
my pocket to grow new light, to undraw the

silhouettes on either side of the silence, to dot
infinity with golden possibilities, but tonight

there can be nothing, my hands are cold in yours,
the earth bears this paradox of churning stillness,

the wind that was to fetch the dawn lies at our feet,
what do we do love, when love is not enough?

Walking on My Khe Beach

The weary sea yawns wide, knees tucked under her chin,
wrapped in a silken sheet of rippling grey, unaffected

by the falling sky who tosses as if in a dark fever, brows
knit, fingers extended towards the shore, wanting the arms

of the reluctant ocean, wishing the clouds would lead
him away, maybe somewhere else there is the warmth of a

more willing bed. I walk along the edge, a lone fishing boat
stalls, refusing to return empty handed, the birds yelling

at him as they pass, gather your nets and accept your
hunger, the moon will not come to you tonight. Perhaps,

that’s all we need, something to move us, something to move
towards, something that cannot bear to see us standing still.

I pull my jacket close and shiver, there is a breeze, the
ghostly light of a boat, and definitely, a cold, cold breeze.

Because Memories

Because memories aren’t memories unless they spin
in a haze of blue, firmament and ocean overturned

into an infinite mist, congealing into an occasional
cloud. I’m beginning to separate the shades, the unsaid,

cobalt at the edge, the untouched, pale as covered skin,
the unawakened, dark and restless in the middle, waiting

for words, for warmth, for touch; the unforgotten,
whirling in random patterns, blurry, wet, between the

truth and the want, the azure of unloved seas, of unkissed
sky, the virgin cerulean of hesitant dreams, daring to

reveal, only to disappear. You didn’t teach me the colour
of a fallen promise, of an abandoned love, of a shadow in

the unsunk depths, of the hue of the past when it floats
sapphire, an imploding moon inside unopened eyes.


First published on Visual Verse (Vol 05, Chapter 03)
Check the link to see their picture prompt


But there is the manifest form with all its imperfections,
and an amorphous mind, soul you call it, consciousness,

being, a viscous cloud of fear and time and knowing; one
the sum of the past trapped in tired skin, the wind of millennia

beginning to erode its edges as it does mountains and earth,
the other still learning, still yearning, an aggregation of

everything wrong and something right. Yet what is your love
that arches its body and frees its limbs and lets its eyes fill with

the light of invisible suns, when I remember another that can’t
be held except by another emptiness, the edges dark with the

warmth of stars that must have once lived; who mourns these
dead stars, love, who knows that the absent, the unseen, is

accentuating the immediacy, the salted curves of the present?
What is my aching form but what your mind gives my body?