In your mouth, ruined content,
Everything dies in it: fantasies, food, language and lovers.
A week’s short span gushed you out in Technicolor –
Season I refuse.
Already I grasp this last shoot of summer,
Trodden vine, some ghost seeds rattling the husk.
You used to dip, like a gardener, parting brambles,
Sweaty amidst the plumbago. Now blood blooms
Like late chrysanthemum, garish in the leaden field.
Already your heated gaze tapers, light scatters dust,
Skin, somnolent. I kiss air.
Sibani Sen lives outside Boston and teaches creative writing and South Asian history. Her current projects include forthcoming new poetry, a translation of an verse epic from early modern Bengal and a monograph on the work of the poet Bharatchandra.