Dark Matter
sextillions of stellar
objects later I am that
which rhymes with
the read and re-read
almond, the spent pile, an ayat
of Leila. Night.
foaming at the mouth
the split moon has become
a silver scalpel here
is my head I do not ask
for miracles, only
your witness finger
your isosceles hands
trisect sky-angles, a velvet
mehrab, born of night’s blue
bruise, night you held
at bay with sentinels
of spells you said
those prayers over
me as well, dandelion
words, they blew softly
on feigned sleep
like whispers felled
my hands are a petrified
forest, a fossil tablet
I cannot shed
this circle, the point
at which we wed
you milked impatiently, I bled
deflowered as the thin
red line under morning’s
eye, an elemental ash
of soot, water, glue and
gaps. I stand
dismantled where I fled
I don’t know
how much a litre or
millimetre is anymore
distances are words
I cannot tread
love by any measure
a quantity misspelled
but if I hurry I could well
be the slightly grateful
dead specify
my mortal bed
size in yards
and inches, of course
meanwhile a teaspoon
of the Big Bang floats
around within us all
a requiem unsaid
©2011 Sophia Pandeya
