Mihir Bellamkonda
Up Above My Head I Hear Music In The Air
After Sister Rosetta Tharpe
The data glow nameless,
bruisey and extinguishing as
cigarette on skin.
We’ve talked about this.
I watch the skyscreen go again
black, purple, blue;
the ending colors.
Heat, extinctions, fascia.
Nothing refreshing alters.
But we’ve talked about this.
I brush soot from wound, wash,
apply your balm. Mint.
This stretched week
I have worried for
the name of the tree on the corner,
which the dog always sniffs
in a slow circle, then marks--
the tree with whispering seeds,
future-shaped,
all wing and fat fecundity.
Then
you kiss
the syllables
into my left ear:
green ash
After Sister Rosetta Tharpe
The data glow nameless,
bruisey and extinguishing as
cigarette on skin.
We’ve talked about this.
I watch the skyscreen go again
black, purple, blue;
the ending colors.
Heat, extinctions, fascia.
Nothing refreshing alters.
But we’ve talked about this.
I brush soot from wound, wash,
apply your balm. Mint.
This stretched week
I have worried for
the name of the tree on the corner,
which the dog always sniffs
in a slow circle, then marks--
the tree with whispering seeds,
future-shaped,
all wing and fat fecundity.
Then
you kiss
the syllables
into my left ear:
green ash
The Gate
I'm brown as earth with an ॐ tattoo but I remember
the image. You've seen it: pearly gates, pearly man,
good or bad, in or out. Hey, it's pretty, I admit, clean,
something to look forward to. My mother said that
about the weekend and big meals, both of which
tire you out. Speaking of you, break my head open
again and ask me whether St. Peter looks forward
to anything. Or perhaps he’s content with his pearls?
Smearing nacreous doves against my vision and
the taste of cold brick or revenge served. Gasping maybe
my last in the alley. Alveoli and vision narrowing. Please,
if this is it, please: let me not pass through the pearls.
Let me drink them in vinegar like Cleopatra. Like Angelou,
let me dispense them from my dark throat. Please.
--
Mihir Bellamkonda is a poet based in DC, currently working on their debut collection, or, perhaps, sleeping. Their work is published or forthcoming in The West Trade Review, The Offing, and Jet Fuel Review, among other journals.
Mihir Bellamkonda is a poet based in DC, currently working on their debut collection, or, perhaps, sleeping. Their work is published or forthcoming in The West Trade Review, The Offing, and Jet Fuel Review, among other journals.