New poetry by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

 

 

Strangers' Secrets

 

I've seen my share of

human secrets and it's

struggled on my lips.

There is no more life

of any kind except for

where I live. Above a

live moon has opened

its arms around the

speckled dark and, like

a deaf woman, I watch

strangers, too tired for

words, in the apartment

windows opposite my

own, their faces half

concealed by the lamp

light, new clothes

spilling from their bed;

shiny boxes left on a sofa,

untouched, unwrapped.

Far away, they stitch

together the tag-ends of

their lives. Alone, I

melt very slowly, having

woken from an incorr-

uptible dream.

 

 

 

Silent Auction

 

It's nearly September

when I wait for you to

write again, my soul lifted

up, flowering at the thought

of you. Lilies open for me

where I live, below the

eastern clouds at sunset;

my memory of you like a

single loose thread I hold

in my fist, a capillary of

fierce intent. All I have left

of you is a menagerie of

winged statuettes. Your

shadow and mine are

arrows of time, a silent

auction of words that lay

deep in our throats. You

are a puzzle with too

many pieces. When I sleep,

I see blurry vignettes of

you in my dreams.

 

 

Lilacs

 

I do not sleep in the same

bed anymore now that I've

left my home, yet this is not

the only thing that has

changed. Slowly the lilacs

will be unfolding again, and

the woolen air follows me

closely now that I must begin

this new uninvited stage in

my life; the past, so thick

with schemes for improbable

endings, has come to a close,

and the future gathers me

in. This time I'll know better

why the next time I try falling

in love again, like casting fine

seeds to the wind. I guess it

must be fate that I've touched

you in another year, another

day. Today the berries nod on

their stems, and you were so

near I saw you for the first

time at dusk when the sky

swept my dusty street.

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