- Border Post, and: Rain, and: Fulcrum
Where someone’s gouged a brick from the wall, a bicycle leans and listens to the light.
One hand claps at air until another hand answers: a column of breath roots itself in the hushed soil.
We are nothing but water, you said, turning back from where the sun set sail this evening. The wind rushed through us, reporting to night’s bivouac.
It’s raining daggers. I’ll wake up drenched, skin bruised, eyes stung by the flute that keeps the oblong hours of sleep. Come back, trace me to my deep
hiding place behind ragged nerve and stupored vein. There’s no refrain but this to this song of first lines, the one line running over:
my love, my love is as real as tonight’s rain. [End Page 40]
Camille Claudel (1864–1943)
The old man has gnarled, enormous hands that drip wax. He can break you down to muscle and set free the naiad hiding behind your mask.
He can trap you in a tree that’s barely broken the rippling surface of marble or melt you down to a river of bronze.
His kneading, curious fingers have found the greatness that crouches inside you. His hands mould it in a tight grip.
He lets go only years after he’s pulled you apart, wounded you where it glories the most. Your last studio: the rolled foetal drawings
fall open. Your body still hinges on where he is, leaps out in five directions at his touch. [End Page 41]
Ranjit Hoskote is the author of five books of poetry, including Vanishing Acts: New & Selected Poems, 1985–2005 (Penguin). His poems have appeared in many journals around the world, including the Iowa Review, The Green Integer Review, Fulcrum, Poetry Review (London), and Akzente (Munich). Hoskote was a Fellow of the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, and is a research scholar at BAK, Utrecht.