by Ajay Kumar
Dimensions of the island- you by me.
The news anchor forgets her name,
on the news-there is nothing to say,
the weather forecast before a blank map-
we’ll see what happens.
It is no paradise, there is no fresh water
but we have no thirst either. You think
the yellow flowers were better red-
they become red. I think the songbird
needs be a little louder- it volumes up.
It is no paradise at all with all the strings
between your fingers- the ocean brings
more sand to the coast like the uterine wall,
amylased on the tongue, simplified into sugars-
powerhouse of the cell, lubdub lubdub,
in the shape of an inverted pear- a ship comes
towards the island of you & me, rudder
& sail, & there is a dock.
Let there be no dock- tsunami-gather
the jetties away but no one listens.
Songbirds dim, flowers return from red,
become sun-worn lobster shells on the beach,
pink then yellow- the island becomes
the island of you
& the island of me.
The ship, cleaving through a silent sea
like a buoyant bronze branch, draws borders-
straight lines laden with the heaviest complications.
It takes longer to bridge the islands than to create
this world- to the odyssey between our breaths-
go forth- seven words a day.
Ajay Kumar is a student & writer based in Chennai, India, whose work has appeared recently in Rattle, The Bangalore Review & Runcible Spoon among others.
Artist: Colin Monteath