TO THE METHODIST
I look at the man looking at the cat
while a gentle storm robs the curtain
of its sleep. I have learnt to fear
To stroke your heart with the tender bones
of my failings, so that you are hurt, but less
So that you are hurt and I fear never losing you
Giving you away to the poor sun
that eats the darkness of my balcony
sometimes the leftover of my body
I have learnt to fear you; fear the method
of your silence, your surgical breath that splits
the rain ball open and usher cottony stars
That’s what they said when they debated
the atrocity of arsenic mingling with the blood
They warned the poor villagers to stay safe
of their loved ones going into the paddy,
rinsing face in the arsenic and drinking often
To keep blood and life separate
To not contaminate. To stay afar and cry
till grief quits gravity in our aquarium bodies
Ours is arsenic love. We mean poison.
THE FINISHING TOUCH
A bundle of his moods snipped
and sewn into a book. This makes
it easy to animate the way he would
pout to love me, or just be. Now
I ski on hard shelled memories
They wither like dew from my spine
as the wind takes off the weary being
of the still houses and a few trees.
He laughs. He smiles I touch him,
now shuffle. I poke his teeth, now
poke myself with a blade that’ll cut
a door & let my childhood go back
into the afternoon when none
is found outdoors; just blazing
whiteness, skin bursting into sunlight
like little crackers of sorrow
I talk to the air, imagine his ears
tracing me to the bath in black fur
He stalks me through the food I eat,
the air I breathe, the sweat I let go.
I shuffle his face the slides on my screen
I see him laugh at my jokes & try after me,
. say POW-UM
THE CRAFT OF BELONGING (I- V)
#I
Of all flavors
the flavor of guilt
coated almonds in rich packet
Arrives in the mail
Much after the heart
Has already given up
believing in fables
Believing
That the lost shoe of Cinderella
Actually belonged to her
#2
I step into
A blast wave
Blackbirds whirl in high velocity
Enter a tiny sphere:
Sores
on the mouth
of time
And pomegranate seeds
turn blue over the milky haze:
Of silence
Of a hand twining the telephone wire
# III
I buy a toy Jesus
To remind me of swallows of pretty dreams
Jesus and I sit together
Naked and play, point out my error
# IV
Launching the still: The dumb bird. A block of loss. A pair of legs of unequal length in everyday sleep
This darkness is a hosiery of fine ink, I write belonging. To stand in a queue. To love in turn. Intern. Despair in turn
My neck knows the craft of your breath, the tiny bullets that whizz inside my skull know you by the triggers
An ounce. Pack me. And leave me aloud mid air. Float, fly or fall. I know the momentum of this silence. The pitch, the timbre.
# V
In a moment, his cheeks are butterflies
A suave dictation, a fruit of a kind
The gatherer in lemon green leather
Pulls down the ropeway on her corset
Inside, vast space, infinity, logistics of turmoil
Linda Ashok has been a guest poet to many literary events in India including The Hindu Lit for Life, 2014 by Prakriti Foundation, PEN Prithvi, Mumbai, 2015, The Kala Ghoda Festival of Arts, 2016 and others. Her poetry has appeared or forthcoming in various literary journals including the Mascara Literary Review, Friends Journal, The McNeese Review and the Big Bridge Anthology of Contemporary Indian Poetry. She reviews poetry for The Rumpus, Entropy and Stirring- a Sundress Publication. A brief coverage of Linda can be found on the Literary Hub’s; #ActualAsianPoets. She’s the Founder/President of RædLeaf Foundation for Poetry & Allied Arts, administering the RL Poetry Awards since 2013. Linda tweets at @thebluelimit.
