If it is the last thing I do, I’ll command you to be amazed. Seas rolling
onto the shore, dried to salt. The dust of growing gorges. The eclipse.
Fields of pines—no, full coasts—caught flame. Nebulae, dead,
their starred knots unknotted, dispersed and flayed into the dark. Blurs
of mackerel skies, horse-shaped clouds. The courses
set into motion by each loss of life. The persistence of gravity.
Copyright © 2020 Sumita Chakraborty
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.