Let them come for what’s left:
a chorus of bone, river and soot.
Worthy enough. Holy enough.
Like all the others, singular—or not.
Wanting only for your name to blue
my lips and call it miracle.
Our love double-knotted, saddle-stitched
held the world together. Until it didn’t—
all the words you placed in me flushed
and faltered. From memory, I recited
their worn prattle—cut them clean
with my bite. The jungle we made in blame
grew and grew, fed on our melancholy.
Not even the birds knew to change their songs.
by Vandana Khanna – http://www.vankhanna.com/