Two poems by Anu Lakhan

I packed:

dry leaves, a toothbrush, a file,

and went up into the mountain

to sleep.

I washed down on a wave,

awakened to rain, purring sky

curled up in my lap, strong coffee.

The land seeped between my scales.

I have been judged

smooth,

whole.

Now, seemingly seamless,

I am more.

I walk east in search of tomorrow

and new words, like rows of gleaming teeth,

smile behind ink-stained hands.

***

Gentle, and more gentle still,

like flowers, but fallen

or half drowned,

these small words like seeds

that grow into islands—

I see you have found the flat shadows

of mountains and the ends of meanings.

I cannot begin,

not knowing the way,

not believing the sign:

I wait and forget

and return—

the vining hand, this

branching sentence remains.

You remark upon the time.

[First published in Calabash, September 2000]