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Saturday, 19 October 2002

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
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]

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