Summer of bonfires in which I go swimming,
Spirit-animating breezes on which I am living
In formidable arrangements of bliss and despair,
Durably plural. I never promised I could fix it,
Derek, the mistakability of poems, words shuffling
In my head. It is midsummer again, with its steam-blaze
Atlantic sea-light and its fanatic infusions of sweet
Loss, its syllables inevitable. Make it rhythm, you said.
Your advice gave me twenty years of aphrodisiac drift.
I am swimming in the bonfire of summer in Brooklyn,
Barking at enchantments and climbing in caskets
I’ve loved. I’ve mapped a witch hunt for myself.
My crimes are too tiny and too interior to matter much.
I am a walking-awkward vernacular specific to myself.
Copyright © 2018 Diane Mehta
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.