‘My carbon is dated to everything fleeting’ – Three poems by Harsh Anand
Photo: Karan Madhok
‘everyone pointed out, / the crevices in my bones, / as if I am unaware of my own biology, / as if my suffering is more endurance than expression.’
A gift in parting
Pining is a cradled dream,
a weathered whether.
“If this is getting,
then what is wanting?”
A simple crinkle,
in the smiles of wishful yearning,
brings us to a pause.
Split nails and
ruptured skin fill their crevices
with the soft kisses of our arrival.
My legs descending the steps
of a blurry entrance,
where we first brushed hands.
Pasty parting words
are frozen here in time,
I remember a gunshot
and an aloof apology
following suit.
“If this is wounding,
then what is healing?”
A waving wager,
sits on the fulcrum of our departure.
In the back seat of the car,
I watch a couple hands fold,
and gather all the chips and wave back.
“If this is loving,
then what is leaving?”
they are both buried under
the same coffin.
*
The Burning Man
All my breaths
I am reminded
that my half life is six months
but my fingers wrinkle by
the time the third full moon
peeks into my window.
Come watch my paralysis,
my inability to move
as my house burns
and love sleeps beside me.
Come witness the great collapse,
I have been
made a spectacle of before,
it isn’t as heartbreaking
as resting my head
on a broken collarbone.
See my eyes shy from
the truth in yours,
too often have I tried
to recognise you
with blindfolds on.
My carbon is dated to
everything fleeting,
and I hurt
as I hug my lover.
Hear my hands brush
against your cheek
like rustling leaves
or the sobs of
time denying me the wish
of holding still.
Feel me
grow heavier from your pages
I add to my books
and apologise.
Say, I’m sorry.
Say, I have run too far
and I’ve forgotten my way back
and even my crutches are broken.
Say, will you be so kind as to
carry me home?
I will leave my baggage here
to ease your burden.
*
Gravity, pull me into the Earth
That is probably the thing about inertia,
we were going so fast,
when you took a sharp left,
my ribcage collided into the sidewalk at the right
and broke into two.
The rest of my way back home,
everyone pointed out,
the crevices in my bones,
as if I am unaware of my own biology,
as if my suffering is more endurance than expression.
When I'm home,
my hands fall on the carpet,
my knees collapse at the dinner table,
my shoulders rest on the study,
and my chest cracks open on our bed,
my heart staining the sheets,
all in an attempt,
to be all the places you’ve been to, at once.
***
Harsh Anand is a poet currently residing in New Delhi, India. You can find him on Instagram: @clemensieumx.
