The Music is Sweet When It’s Stuck Inside of Us
Up into lilacs or perhapslighter evening on the freshwings of obliteration I think
about breaking my voicethe way a desperate manmight snap his own bone
the arm in the handa wayward angela small orange bird
I lose speech for a momentI am already backin the lake district [End Page 18]
Outside the city of wind and rust,a woman is being pulled up from a white grave.
He has to be careful with her. He has to imaginea tenderness brush his hands.
Outline of a closed mouth in white sleep. Risingto horizon, the bolted quiver of wrist.
Her body is mute and made of sugar.
And he must work quickly. He will carry herto the pool, lay her in water.
Sweet form landing for the last time lets goof the quick sugar hungers. A thigh touches first
and dissolves. Moments along the granularhand and neck take on distance, then subside.
He stands back up, tired. Wind will take the rest.
By morning she’ll be a flat white cloud.He’ll walk to town behind shoulders,tasting the body on his fingers. [End Page 19]
Jay Deshpande’s poetry has recently appeared in Phantom Limb, Bodega, Narrative, Sixth Finch, Atlas Review, and elsewhere. He lives in Brooklyn and works in magazine publishing.