My floating poem.
I found you,
the red spine of your poetry
tucked in an infantry line of books.
You were a life buoy in wild waters —
barely seen, mostly sensed.
Over the years you
were there, a seed, a flare
a slowly unwinding revelation.
I read you
and felt my difference
rise from those yellowed pages,
stains blooming like petals
on the edges.
The binding exposed,
paper precariously rooted.
Yet, each word smelled of
things so familiar,
solid enough to hold,
precious enough to want to horde
and hide.
And I travelled far, you see, mapped
a body that didn’t belong to me,
measured its parts
as only a divided country does,
at war with itself.
But I gave you to her and together,
we filled the empty unsaid,
between my throat
and my dread.
Your words like blankets,
we rearranged
over our bodies, hers
pressed against mine, our love
reaching for nothing less
than the will to survive.
My floating poem,
suspended over yours,
where I have traced
with loyal conviction
the life I would leave
in order to return.
Anki Sinha
Walk With Me 