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howl at the moon a little more convincingly



Every passing moon is lonelier than the last,
And you cry and rail against the ink of the sky,
Against my fingers clasped around the skin of your wrists
but whose fault is this vacant screaming, this hollow rattling inside your chest?

I could never fit all of me into the belly of your desire,
But the whole of you still fits into the palm of my hand.
You fear more than you want so back you run,
To the same landbound boat by the same ocean.

Haven’t you learned yet: only the seamen know how a boat unmoors:
You may stand at the harbour all your life but your feet will neither anchor nor sail.
They will only draw debris to your heels
Until you are more sediment than yourself.

You will recast yourself as ocean, river, sea and unsailing, sinking boat;
But never the rain.
You see, its vastness never took the shape of a body you could morph into,
Hoping to be reborn as that which doesn’t know what it is to be afraid.

What came first: the chicken or the egg?
Did not your heart pump blood to your neck before what was gushing pulled at the drawstrings of your arteries?
Has not the fear of monsters always birthed more monsters?
What seeded the first seed if not desire?

Will you empty your cups so I can pour into them till they run over?
Will you ask me not for hunger, but instead, allow yourself to be sated;
If tomorrow all we have left is dust and ashes, then, even then,
Would you still let me drink from the chalice of your hands?

Prerna is a purveyor of all things lunar and a bougainvillea-enthusiast from India who is a historian by training and poet by choice. They love writing about and to music, staring at the sky and reading good poetry - preferably all at once.

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