Statues of Eternal Silence: Two poems by Christ Keivom
Photo: Karan Madhok
‘I simply mean: our image of forever / Is not forever, the way a painting / Of an ocean is not wet.’
All I want you to hear
Yes. Yes. Yes. I hear. Your silence is loud.
— Anne Sexton
When it rains, I’d like to be the window
That holds your face pressed against its glass.
You look through me and see
The world, as if looking in a mirror
That is looking in a mirror.
When I say joy is not imperishable, unlike
The ripe fruits in still life.
I simply mean: our image of forever
Is not forever, the way a painting
Of an ocean is not wet.
And when I say, your eyes have the kind of brown
A gardener hopes for, that fecund earth colour.
Do I somehow contrast you with a flower?
Or imply your worthiness of flowers? Do
I mean anything flowery at all?
Or simply: I wish we were the flowers
Of this earth so we could die and live again.
But as for the nights, when more things
Than blood move within the heart.
They are not lampposts that stand
Like beacons to the underworld, or pinned stars
Or even the sheep in dream induced mountain valleys
They are the statues of eternal silence, and for now,
The nights are saying all I want you to hear.
*
I’ve been skimming the pages of your bible
I’ve been skimming the pages of your bible
And the passages you underlined reading in bed.
I read it too, under the tree which took root
Down to hell and grew upto the vaults of heaven.
I’ve been having dreams about the world’s end—
Always about to happen. I think it’s a sign of rapture,
Like birds tapping on the window is a portent of death.
I’ve been asking God to decree intimacy before marriage,
Having been in bed with your demons and then
Left for mine again. The same elderly couple still
Frequent the church next to fourth avenue.
Our streetlights still turn on ten minutes early
Before dusk. I imagine you still, in the middle
Of a poem, begin a new poem with the end
In mind. I’ve exhumed my Manipuri spelling;
Administered it to my tribal tongue before it dies.
If only to imagine you banter, that our ancestors
Lost their lives once in themselves, once in us
That our history overlooked has always been
About trying to stay. Say war. Say warn.
You must be right. It is repetition that keeps our lives cohesive.
How love is a recurring mistake, like history’s banal rotation.
That pretty girl on the midnight metro,
So dismissive of all the attention she receives
Will grow old, change her ideals, and so forth
Years from now another girl looking not
Unlike her will come sit in the same seat
And the exact grief will subsume my heart
As it does every time I see a girl with almost
All of your beauty going the opposite
Direction without saying goodbye.
***
Christ Keivom (he/him), is currently pursuing his master's in English Literature from Delhi University. His work has previously appeared on Novus Literary Arts Journal, Mulberry Literary, Monograph Mag, Write now lit and more.
