poem by Arjun Rajendran

September 12, 2011

It strikes me the number of mourners at your funeral
equals the change in my pocket; I wonder if you’ll
be buried with your resume.

The dimensions of your coffin glow like fungi.
There is at least one ownerless shadow flitting
around the room, a sparrow braving the winter.

Today is the syllables of my name plus a leaf.
I have not measured the inches of snow on the sidewalk,
I think of your cold lips while munching the cake.

The body of a sonnet washes down my mind—
You slit its throat and pushed it into me, the last
fall we kissed under an iguana cloud.


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