the poem says I am coldhearted, a tree no one is able to climb, that my face is broken and is in many places like twigs making sense of a wind-wave, the more reason I am loved is because looking into every enemy you'll find something to love. says throw your grief over the window, you’ll splutter a hunk of it on curtains, eyelashes are affectionate of the horizon that knows there is something to hate in the grimy countryside, something to hate about flaws engraved on my body. the poem loves my body, a glass of water, soaks the lips of a world that speaks softly, a glass of myriad cracks, nothing uttered is enough to brand echoes on its walls, it is an object on the desk, in a rendering room, a ghost waiting to be seen in the darkness of father's light, the poem says in my eyes is everyone who will die, my ears burn in what the poem says, the poem burns, until I transmute into something half-formed in the smoke of what is yet to happen. says If I stay long enough on a spot, my feet will become roots, and I'll be unable to leave. the poem, a mouthpiece of a body unable to speak, ravening in the feeds of mind, the meadows that remember their own stories in open fields, carried on the mandible of birds and in the voices crickets make at night. the poem, a prayer same as a song, same as a lamplight shinning back at its creator

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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