Reminders
To the Ocean,
My deepest apologies for
judging, you didn’t
lash out at
those helpless sailors,
you were writhing.
a tide of cool
blue currents washes down
my spine, as
fingers dance a
mindless waltz through
my hair.
A transmitter relaying,
across seas of hopeful stars,
the universe’s message
loud and clear.
But maybe I adjusted the frequency,
and never felt that punch
without a swing,
feeling it bore through
my chest, seeking out my soul.
The soul It once protected, It:
the statue I used to
stare at from the banister, wondering
why Periamma had chosen it to
guard her front door,
a laughing Buddha
buoyantly chiseled, warmth
emanating from his smile.
But broken out
from the stone pedestal,
It unfurls into a tower, casting
shadows over town and mountain alike
lunging forward to fill its maw, gorging
on my innards, a feast of
my flesh and bones,
teeth gnashing, eyes
a lustful green
weighing down the scale
weighing me down to the floor
Which I slip through,
into midnight streets
all that existed
was you and me
our laughs
warmed the air
floating on frostbitten breeze
that carried us in
to the computer lab,
watching shows on the board
as I battled against the pain
emanating from my sleeping legs,
afraid it would disturb
the warm gold vines that
slowly encircled us,
And when Joyce
walked in
to clean
on her graveyard shift,
that never prevented her from
sitting with me for
sitting with me for
a few minutes,
we jump apart,
bashfully innocent,
cheeks ablaze.
Cycles
When the wildflower
peaks out its head,
icy memories shudder,
and melt in
flames of Spring again.
Yet winter comes,
and the only heat
is from staring
into the hearth,
and the comforter on my bed.
It’s no easy feat,
walking through the snow,
while the ghost of the sun
lingers in my chest—
So I convince my mind
Spring will never come.
Yet when I least expect it,
I see a blossom.
And my well-trodden road
is worn once more
oblivious the tempest
will soon rage
I avoid the chill
in the solace of my bed,
insulated by the
heat of another.
Nonetheless,
I ask myself,
Why am I dreaming
of the Wildflower?
Columnist Kuvin Satyadev can be reached at kuvins@umich.edu.