yaymukund's application
Hi, these poems are my babies. So please be gentle.
Just kidding...
Caste
The bony stranger ahead
is pulling the rickshaw,
is pulling you from the sun,
has pulled his entire life
since you were three,
is named Hari
just like your father.
Make no mistake
if you turn I will prick your toe and you will drag
back. You are the ash, fruit, and calf until I finish this smoke
so sit up.
Now I am petting the sofa; do you smoke? Have a cigarette,
tell me your plans and I can inspect every frame littering
your home: the mitzvahs, weddings, scrawls. Looking
through the thick cloud between us, I am saying: you know,
you don’t have to be so quiet. We all go when our ash is stubbed
but you can make it easy.
While I am fetching a handful of fruit from your kitchen and biting
it to keep myself together, the sounds start their usual questions.
Do you know a swimmer’s proverb? Don’t nail your feet just as
you are poised to jump. So I reach my pocket for another
but now you are almost up.
Tossing the rinds, open the glass pane
so any fumes slide away. Now lift it with
a steady hand and silent pace.
And this is when I
hack and you
croak. Twelve pieces
dried and down
with bleach. Let me
write you out
as a goat
bleating.
Passing
Father’s footprint on the paint
follows the edge unnoticed-
not just a sandal’s grounding
but
his cool foot pressed
to liquid canvas just
before the final wash.
All that’s left is canvas
reams of cloth along red walls.
Each layer of color
passes through the one beneath
and hardens. A fossil record
of things that no one knows.
Lifting dad to the floor,
I place my toes in his.
My step is soft, and his
dry.
Just kidding...
Caste
The bony stranger ahead
is pulling the rickshaw,
is pulling you from the sun,
has pulled his entire life
since you were three,
is named Hari
just like your father.
Make no mistake
if you turn I will prick your toe and you will drag
back. You are the ash, fruit, and calf until I finish this smoke
so sit up.
Now I am petting the sofa; do you smoke? Have a cigarette,
tell me your plans and I can inspect every frame littering
your home: the mitzvahs, weddings, scrawls. Looking
through the thick cloud between us, I am saying: you know,
you don’t have to be so quiet. We all go when our ash is stubbed
but you can make it easy.
While I am fetching a handful of fruit from your kitchen and biting
it to keep myself together, the sounds start their usual questions.
Do you know a swimmer’s proverb? Don’t nail your feet just as
you are poised to jump. So I reach my pocket for another
but now you are almost up.
Tossing the rinds, open the glass pane
so any fumes slide away. Now lift it with
a steady hand and silent pace.
And this is when I
hack and you
croak. Twelve pieces
dried and down
with bleach. Let me
write you out
as a goat
bleating.
Passing
Father’s footprint on the paint
follows the edge unnoticed-
not just a sandal’s grounding
but
his cool foot pressed
to liquid canvas just
before the final wash.
All that’s left is canvas
reams of cloth along red walls.
Each layer of color
passes through the one beneath
and hardens. A fossil record
of things that no one knows.
Lifting dad to the floor,
I place my toes in his.
My step is soft, and his
dry.