Sickly Summersong Sestina
A thousand moons, yet none to reap;
fish tanks or silver bowls laden with fruit.
The tails of our eyes emerging from the rush
of all the comets. The billboard outside tells
me to plant a book in my kitchen sink,
to bath-tub in the bowl the wind makes
for me. Cozied in wet tile, my pet fish makes
to point out lavender sunrises, which I reap
selfishly when I venture off my dream path, sinking
into the hush of its forbidden orchards as the fruits
make me narrate tales of far away places. My tells?
I blink— & the poster of my room before me. A rush
like this: I tuck this phantom into my wallet, rush
back home. Crack open the mirror, start making
my own conclusions. The photos on my wall telling
me to close my eyes, I standstill, crown cities, reap
fallen cement to rain a concerto in my room. The fruits
of this labor sweet enough to make my skin sing. I sink
to my knees. What more is there to give? The bathroom sink
caressing my reflection with tenderness. The morning rush
and I go to my backpack, inside which the fruits
of the lampposts hang gravely, bulbs sputtering, making
whining sounds. These lights will burst soon, and I will reap
dazzling lilies and dahlia bulbs from the broken glass. Tell
me, are you the garden or the gardener in this story? Tell
me to, and I’ll etch all the pain out of your cheek. Sink
yourself into every blemish, and they will rise out. Reaping
a flower field through closed pores. There’s no rush
except to see the crows dance. I wonder what they make
of us, standing on this asymmetrical disc, victim of the fruits
we can’t reach. Beyond this archway, the fruit
of this year is as ripe as it can be. Each one has a story to tell.
The farmer, ploughing through the seasons, who makes
them eat when they are ill, coaxes syrup into mouths, sinks
into the soil to hold them to his chest. No rush,
just the distant hum of the city streetcars, who are reaping
exhaustion into the next century. Each breath, the reaping
of the ones we lost. Nature never rushes.
Come lie down with me in the embrace of its sink.
Dhwanee Goyal is getting through college one donut at a time. The editor-in-chief of Indigo Literary Journal, their work appears in Barrelhouse, Foglifter Journal, A Velvet Giant, and more. Find them on Twitter @pparallell, or at dhwaneegoyal.weebly.com.