Kalpita Pathak received the James Michener Fellowship for her MFA in creative writing and has taught at both the college level and in school programs for kids from three to eighteen. Kalpita is an autistic poet, novelist, and advocate with a passion for research and sensory-rich details. You can see more of her work at kalpitapathak.com
She stops
in my doorway for a mere
seven seconds before leaving
for the day, enough time for me
to see the top
button on her dress
shirt is undone, uncovering
a glazed hint of previously hidden
skin. I imagine pressing my palm
on it – warm, olive and freckled
from hours spent
outdoors – breathing a scent clean
like dirt, like a sapling
stretching, fragile and sure
under the morning light. My parched
mouth seeks the moisture that collects
in a dew. I am a woman dying
of thirst and every drop
tastes of the Mediterranean Sea.
That exquisite, overturned
amphora: base at the pulse
of her throat; lip pursed just above
her radiant heart, beams, bright
and unblinding, bathing the world
around her. I want to lift up
that vital vessel and wonder aloud,
Utinam omnes cor tuum videre possent1.
(I know I did, even the first time we met.)
But, it is not mine to hold. So, I close
my eyes and give thanks
to the unbutton that opens
to me this archipelago of sun
and earth and water,
of seedlings
where for seven glorious, eternal
seconds, the two bodies
of our soul become one2.
1 “If only everyone could see your heart.” (special thank you to Callaina at latindiscussion.com for her translation, patience, and thorough insight on the various meanings of “heart”)
2 When queried, “What is a friend?”, Aristotle replied, “A single soul dwelling in two bodies.” Aristotle (384-322 B.C.), Greek Philosopher, quoted in Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, “Aristotle”, bk. 5, sct. 20
Succession
to Melpomene
you sing tragic
mask dangling
from one hand its silhouette
ephemeral in the sun-
bright garden you wrap
your arms around
him from behind his hair
like down against
your bare skin feed him
slippery pomegranate seeds one
after the other tart juice stains
his lips drips
down
his chin a bloodied dagger
cinched at your belt crimson matching
crimson he licks your sticky fingers greedy
earnest his tongue soft and warm as wet
earth over
his shoulder you see the next one waiting
and the one after him and so on until
they become a smoky smudge in the distance
and still you sing your melody never
breaking when his tablet
is full he turns clutching
his stylus and falls
to his knees burying his face
in your gown full of desire
and guilt the cloth puddles over
your cothurni as you give and give
to he who needs so selfishly you are not naked
to him you are redemption and muse
fingers tightened through the sharp-edged
eye of the mask blood sliding
down your palm and still you cannot release
your song it rises
like heat endless and joyous ever threaded
to your aching throat even as the line
moves forward eyes and mouths open hungry needing
always needing
the wreath of leaves you wear
on your head does not have thorns
yet it catches nonetheless pulls
your hair out
one strand at a time
Poetry in this post: © Kalpita Pathak
Published with the permission of Kalpita Pathak