POEMS

Strange Arteries

love dries up, I thought
as I walked back to the
bathroom, even faster
than sperm.”
(Bukowski)

love dries up, if you let it,
or not.
It has a mind of its own.
Love crawls out from cracks
in the gutters of streets,
minds, bodies-
It creeps past clowns
but lures in every
unassuming child
just the same.
Love is God,
but it laughs like Lucifer,
and falls like gravity,
in space.
But nobody notices-
We are floating far
from the Earth
from Heaven and hell,
forgetting that oxygen is known
to run out.

love dries up, if you want it to,
or not.
It has never listened to anyone.
Love is a brand new airplane
ten thousand feet high
and you think
“the mountains have never looked prettier.”
Love is the shove,
the fall,
the vomit stuck in your throat
as you pierce through clouds
without a parachute,
and you think:
“So long, my friend.
Fuck fairy tales.”
We wear our hearts
in slippers of glass
leaving them on alters
and then
one by one
we wake up.

love dries up, because it must.
and through eternity
we will look for postcodes
at the bottom
of whiskey glasses
writing unsent letters
asking:
“Does the black-hole have an affinity
for beating hearts?”

-Meghalee Mitra