I am a woman of soft auburn dreams/ a soft noise that appears after a thunder/ you wish to dissolve my nectar into your blood/ Slowly, a miracle happens when I wake up.
I have a world full of clouds that hesitate to rain/ a tongue so moist /as soft as pollen/my neck is a hallway of thousands of leftovers kisses & untouched words.
A displaced person,
Slowly you watch me,
My fingers getting fixed, a fuselage
And my other fingers weaving a mesh of your memories.
brightening of your breaths
My shawl/arteries of the silver in the rock.
But I need time-
My time to make some small dreams.
a landscape in which we are mortal/
A hot pot full of garlic & cloves
for I have a thing for cooking and the process that follows.
The stridency of mating
behind the bushes of rosemary
out of myth into history.
This is my pure sound.
A window is suddenly blurred/ a woman calling a child from far distance/ what remains is a city of us / drawing maps of fidelity/ the talk is of death.
I say such trivial things all the time.
Do not be foolish to rely on my orange juice now.
I dream of winter trees in my fist/ in the evenings of summer breeze.
Across my mind of burning galaxy.
of my limbs hovering in shadows
It has not seen face of glow,
An eternal strand of light
I want to swim & run now
No human, no words.
A bulging, opulent transparent lip of nothingness around.
On the surface of the sheet,
the song of the mountains.
A slippery slick poem of the God.
A parallel plastic skin of night.
Behind the lens
There is nothing that I would want from the sky.
Neither from your shirt’s button
Or from your cheeks glitter.
I want things in a minimalist way,
with a bowl of souvenirs dancing around my waist.
With a hint of hiccups & stars
Always beside my pillowcase,
A soft lullaby of my mother’s turmeric hands,
A sigh so soft this time.
I want details to be normal.
Perfection kills the sorbet of life.
A barren land full of moths& weeds,
for every creatures swivel a smile.
A jar of dreams,
Pink/ blue / red coloured visions of poetry,
An array of chemicals gushing
across my collarbone,
to be a scent of petunia always.
Life gulps the despair again & again.
A palm always speaking of trivial yet beautiful things.
About the Author
Devika Mathur resides in India and is a published poet, writer. Her work has been published in Madras Courier, Dying Dahlia Review, Pif Magazine, Spillwords, Duane’s Poetree, Piker Press, Mojave heart review, Whisper and the Roar amongst various others. She is the founder of surreal poetry website “Olive skins” and writes for https://myvaliantsoulsblog.wordpress.com