Aagash Vadera – Our Boat
Shivering cups line the wood board table in rows,
a neat salute to the green underbelly
of black-washed print.
Two drops crawl to the lip of the tap,
are mirrored in thick stars
and fall like sequins.
A cloud turns: and lines of light let in are
dancing off the glass candles,
Brass is burning the liver plate,
its stained tongues are meticulously pleated,
and golden inside.
My forked lances cannot rest in darkness,
they rattle in their cages, pass over folded eyes,
and stir the ashen blanket.
Words hang from the rag-doll on the ceiling,
in white knots tied and seizing.
Laughter peels from the walls,
it strips away and falls,
into a jar
by the door
as it shuts.
- Posted in: Poetry