by Sharanya Manivannan
Filter coffee under a flowering tree
on the street on which he still lives,
in a blue art deco house in which
there must exist a scintilla of me
as something other than only
the great loss of his life.
The summer spreads her fingers
beyond the octave of sweetness.
There is a cut in my svadishtana
chakra from my last lover,
the one who was too afraid
to kiss me sober or to be
unlike any other.
Early in the mornings I feed the crows
steamed rice and mustard seeds
and when I walk at all it is under
canopies of raining leaves,
into arenas of unswept blossoms.
Life is simple on these days
that slake the singe of the rest.
Like clay I have cooled to a
more tolerant temperament,
like the wasp I build alone,
telling myself that I am not
Sharanya Manivannan is the author of a book of poems, Witchcraft. Her poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in Hobart, Wasafiri, Drunken Boat, Prairie Schooner, Killing The Buddha and elsewhere.She has received an Elle Fiction Award and a Lavanya Sankaran Fellowship,and been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes. She lives in India.