Poem in Place of a Needle
My lover writes letters, sealed
with saliva, and I cut them open,
put tongue on paper that delivers
his tongue. Become old-world lovers.
Grandmother, grandfather, wedded
by ocean. Nineteen, already armed
with a lifetime’s distress. Some lovers
have reason for hurting. One
bigger than childhoods of butter
browned over. Once, I was good
at scaling trees in the winter, getting
skinned knees, those gleaming
red smiles, grabbing spoonfuls
of ghee, gold on pink tongue.
Sometimes we taste smells.
All their sweet patter. Once, I broke
my nose on the blue catch
of a pool. How it smelled—
the red rind of pain. A tang.
Oranges, sliced, consumed. Gray
remainders. My mother held cloth
to the bleed. So many
crises, and mother
made doctor. Once, I loved
my girlhood doctor.
Her lollipops, her sizzle. When I said
I will be a scientist, like
dreams were a symptom,
she gave me numbers, let me
watch needles
enter my skin, only my brown.
I couldn’t watch them
touch others. I don’t want others
touched. I don’t want other
touch. I play at being
mother. It is better
to set the wound
into skin.
It is better to make
the wound
accessible. It is better
to set the wound. In the letter
my lover writes that he loves
how I talk through my living. Narrating
existence. Lately I skip the letters. Call him
and say: I will cut this bread, butter
its skin. Now I will eat. Now I will
sleep. Now I will wake
again. I want him
to search me for new
entrances. Entrance
me with his findings. Tell me:
Where’s the wound? It hooks
and it puckers. It will scar over: A kiss
can’t last forever. In the ER,
there’s narration: Every bleed ends,
one way or another. Once I was good
at the hurting, now for patching
hurt up. They train us to take pain, ask
when did it start, how bad, what
relieves, does it shift when you shift.
As if you can shift pain. Pain is gray
and would like ice chips. It dreams
in full color. I give pink to it. Girl-pink,
tongue-pink, tongue on paper
asking for a cut.
Lovesick
A poem is the only way I know to diagnose
a love. Must I tell others of you? And how:
As feathers, true? Most days we pass as sweetness.
Honey, overdose. Sunlight, best ungripped.
But in me is the rind. All this love-starved
skin. Before, I never knew the truth
of longing. How it’s inside-out. Sometimes,
on the worst days, I want to crack my sternum
open. Stitch you right inside. Keep you there.
Another heart. Your lungs and mine as wings.
Disha Trivedi is from Northern California. Her poetry and prose appear in The Shore, Rust & Moth, The Women’s Issue anthology from The Harvard Advocate, and elsewhere.
Image: medium.com
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