Saturday, 1 August 2020

Anannya Uberoi, Poetry 2020 Third Prize

 I Will Meet You Again


through fractals of branches five points

west of North Ave with its old bars and

timeworn birds perched on rootless trees,

racing threads of time that have swiveled 

a hundred times, following the burnishes of

your footsteps that    

leak into an unforgiving

forest of one-way trains, 

unto your chest,

my boneyard of tired legs.


I will meet you again when the umbra that

separates our planes is mellowed every

afternoon on the discretion of my chair

against the curtained window, every twilight

when my sleeplessness like a disease,

absorbed by down cotton falls in flicks of

ash on your storm cellar.

 

I will root a tree in my heart so my barren

branches when laden with cerise may touch

you in gentle ways from afar, our yarns of

existence like 

the loose thread on your

sweater I pulled and pulled 

until you vanished, the undone ribbon in 

my hair I chase and chase until it completes in 

the palm of your hand.



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