Poetry by Natasha Sachdeva
We pulled threads off the mattresses
during the hurricane,
wondering if one would pull more
than another silenced feather.
storing the words in our backbones
until we had no choice but to lie down
and wait for the whistling outside the window
to catch in our throats
and make us say a different word.
The lights were out
hiding behind the static left by the tv,
while the wind continued to blow it farther away.
We coughed our laughs, then caught them in our toes
and buried them beneath the blankets
so we'd have some left for
when we finally fell asleep.
I tasted the words the flickered across your eyes
and each glance that jittered its way to me.
I can't be calm when all I have of you
is a blank smile on a paper that makes you look liquid.
You used to smell like ammonia
and your tears would glue to your eyelids
when I was around.
Your voice was different.
It was the voice that used to pick up concrete blocks
in the backyard--not the voice
that belonged with a jaundiced smile
and a stale body.
I did love you.