I am talking my way back to the poem’s turn
and where it might lie outside my skirted body,
a corded place where bluish sky paints my attention,
and empties itself into a golden silence—
without talk or sound. Phrases now feel
perversely sentient and yet devilishly
wrong. Every night I talk with the hope
that speech itself will burn me
its one true alphabet.
Nevertheless, morning’s magic
always looks opaque because
a stronger feeling replaced
the lesser one, and the rightness
must reach the poem’s hearted center
so that I am led to what might be
a plateau of nested changes, something
irresistible, those letters of gold, maybe anew.
This poem is from Prageeta Sharma’s new book, Onement Won.
