Robbing from a shallow grave leaves something behind.
True images blur to let hearsay in, every word
revealing a new part of your body like a magic trick.
What happens when somebody looks after we die?
What do they see if they don’t know where to look,
what if they know exactly, then, what do they see?
You lost some blue here, a lost sound of a red neon
lasso echoes. The sun with its singular arm punches
the earth, sun let in through scratches conceives
a creature made in pillars of light behind the curtains.
In the earth- it’s the turn of the bones to feel like skin.
Buried in a tree- I bury the tree in the last fallingish fruit,
you died undigested & I think I have made you immortal,
watching your cycles sync. I think red & blue are different
parts of the sky- a panorama thirst, of the eyes,
clouds like hyphens, to the eyes. Mourning cannot be one word-
it is a sky, something like a seismogram with a mark like this-
between each minute. Open the blinds of the earth-
excavate the curtains- something must be plain in hidden sight,
it cannot be a place with hills nearby, possibly dwarfing
our mountains of gathering blue-red bones.
About the Poet
Ajay Kumar is a student and writer based in Chennai, India whose recent work has appeared in Rattle, Praxis and The Bangalore Review among others