A Raining House Aahna Joshi This oneThis day is the last of our first year’s spring, your unbraided lengths of hair I have converged within my fingernails, your leaf-like mouth glossed with a sheety cold rink, what you know is what I know, is once you such liked to say. This day, in our old leaky house, cannot make our last, what is the last day of a season, who can say, or the first day of love, of we who loved-- we have? Besides that lake, that we on muddy sunsets, used to cross across the barren bridge, me e’er a barking loser, you trying to pluck your wings and pelt away those feathers, of yours into the marshy wet, this is how you comfort me. A crevasse or few I have cleft through your shuddering unseasoned dreams, your heart in a plate before me, bloodless since boiled, of your inductive germs you had salved from me, so to you. I prod your favourite lake with eely long arms to see if you’ve left your old ghost there, someone ambitious you had mostly been, not a thin-armed zombie, I slowly carve. This is a nightmare I have not moulded, the one I do not easily grow blank on, as viscous dough adhering between my fingers,
36
