Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
I know what lasts
is the infamy of gentle people.
I invent the night to guard me
against the dream of my mother’s red curls
folded inside a white envelope, the paper wedding dress
I try on for size, the nude I try next to look at my ears in your eye,
the warmed room of it.
There, in the plural mornings,
mirrors of us all over, even in onions
who peel each other in window triptychs.
I know what lasts trends minimalist.
The gentle people self- actualize by TikTok,
each screen more divine than its ancestor.
I know what lasts is the teetering toenail who belongs to the towering
giant in the bougie zoo cage, arranged with fake rocks and faux lakes,
the furred metaphor
luring toward the meta for Us,
the eye in the warmed room of it. To guard me
against waking, I invent a stained glass, a cryptaesthete
ruin which hot hurts speak in their sleep.
Hurts say you could jump without falling. I know
a man with a house on his back burns faster than saplings.
Come here, tinder, kindling, fire-storm.
Leave your eye on the latch
and the lack.
Excerpted from 43 Infra-noir objects