Luisa

Luisa, I am waiting for your garden to perspire.

I wonder if you suspected that summer

Has echoed inward this year, gathering up in slick buffalo folds,

Casting in rust over the snake in the basement.

Glory to you, Luisa—you are stark in your division, and form

Is not an empty threat. Your coat is running up the river,

Foaming out the stale August wind, radiant with soil,

Your fingernails cavernous with hunger.

We are animals of low and loving birth, and I am intact 

In your mourning, in the wholeness of your turn. 

Praise be to you, Luisa!

You need not be holy. You are already

So terrifyingly good.

Aham

I am in a dance, winsome, the cuttlefish of a song

Gone by last Tuesday—only it was not Tuesday;

If a week cannot contain itself, I am inside of it,

Yelling maw, scion of a thousand red wets.

I am (dance) beetle, saving this, sending this away,

To Costa Rica, to Eden, to that Happy Place—

Satisfy my palm, catch me in that trembling face of yours!

I am not in a skidding diamond, weaving for your heart.

I am a sky of paperwork,

Bottling with last night’s supper, mouth wide and sad.

I am here, bird, beast, man, terrible! To be not-this, 

To be all this.

Madhumita Rajagopal grew up in Calgary, Chennai, and Kuwait, where she was first introduced to different literary traditions. She draws inspiration from her favorite writers (Kahlil Gibran/Marie Howe/Sarojini Naidu), her experiences as a Bharatanatyam dancer, and the people in her life. In her free time, Madhumita enjoys cooking, watching period dramas, and trying to pet every cat she meets.