Priyanka Joseph

Sunday Afternoon 12:21 all’s fogged up
Inside the bus the men and women you will never find on Oprah…

the best part, you sonofabitch,

is looking for the exact word…

I’d string out gas-yellowed bridge lamps
to form the big dipper, then pick a lighthouse
as the north star

I got up because tonight wasn’t the night to stand with my face to the stars with a raccoon at my feet, wood pigeons in my hair.

And the silence was huge,
like the space inside a rotten seed…

Dearest,

_I wanted to write to and tell you of how I long for the moment when we will be together again. The cold winds pace, howling, in the balcony every night, and the moon is unsympath…

I’m beginning to understand what it is especially about women. Smell. Scent. Perfume.

I would not let us speak, to say the unnecessary words. It is like Japanese rice paper against a burning flame: a glow against the dark lean fingers of the night outside.

At that exact moment, a doctor named Patel discovered a cure for AIDS, and superman deflected an asteroid hurtling towards Iran.

An incredible ache
like the time you dared yourself to clutch
ice-cubes in your fingers
till nothing was left but water.