manpasand / मनपसंद

My favorite poem is the vodka Sprite,
choking my lungs, the inescapable immaturity of
a citron bottle in a college dorm. Almost naked and
hand tremor terrified. The messy truth
uncovered, the blankets all gone.

Or the favorite poem of the last dregs of
coffee slipping through my fingertips, the moisture
of powder a consistent if redundant remainder. Reminder.
drippage and staining on the wood, my
fingerprints all undone.

The favorite poem of the accidentals
in the jazz song, tripping and falling down
the stairs of concert-perfect. Flats and sharps
scraping my knees. The roll of the
rhythm shattered.

Another favorite poem of the last dance,
the echoey screech of the speakers, the
unfettered vulnerability of late night. The arms
tight, the whispers unheard, nose to nose.

There is the poem of the letter unanswered
and the phone call forgotten, the poem of the
emaciated Jesus statue and the nine-year-old
atheist, the poem of the ripened figs contrived
from parasite, the poem of the magnolia blossom
in January, and the poem of the engraved table,
the lajwanti poem, and the boundary poem;
there was the poem of burning and the poem
of endless silence, the unwritten poem. Oh, manpasand.