Against my thoughtless judgment
there used to be just this: the dream
of a daughter, fading like a sunburn.
I did not expect it to be perfect. I just
needed it to fit what I needed.
Ten months later the world’s untangled
and left, shifting new borders or canceling
old plans. In my strung-up dreams everyone
has the same face. It’s true; I loved myself
while leaking out.
And I am lost on who could wear
my albatross of you, who might wield its beak—
but those who still know me are performing it,
they yawn familiarly as they settle in their seats.
Now I cannot stop drifting into past tense,
detached like a star with a number for a name.
You said once that couples can give stars
to each other as gifts even though they
might already be dead. You called this
somewhere between losing and lost.
About the Poet
Leela Srinivasan is an MFA student at the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas at Austin. Originally from New Jersey, she holds a BA in Psychology and MA in Communication from Stanford University. She currently lives in Austin, Texas.