"i've been angry" by Prachi Valechha
Two poems by Uma Dwivedi
mouth (the task of a name)
after Anne Carson
heart a door so heavy it hasn’t been opened
in decades. in the dark kitchen, I sit
on the countertop & tongue my name
off a silver spoon. it tastes
like lemon curd, sugar stinging
my unwounded tongue. wound:
any muscle strained to rupture
my heart studs me with splinters
sharp as a bone shard
or a white-knuckled fist behind the back.
I tip back my skull’s flattest plane against
the cabinet & my name like a pearl falls
down the throat & I choke.
paint peels from wood like fingers
gentling after a punch. I want blood like wet
forkfuls of thread split along the knuckles.
I want you, anyone that will have me--
a hand to pull me open, to pull me to my feet.
a hand to hold. I want you real
so I name you a body, both your palms pressed
to the wood, but it is wrongsided, futile
even in desire, my heart, a door useful
as wall, and I, alone in a small
dark kitchen, I am so sorry,
this is as far as we go, I am so sorry you tried.
I tire of my martyrdom—another
name made of sour fruit.
I sit with Fear, who never leaves me,
constant & forgotten as shadow.
she slips her fingers in my mouth
& I bite down, spoon her warm skin
down the tongue. she knows my name,
speaks it often, & this I will call love
in the absence of something sweeter,
my heart, I’ll call a door, so I am spared
any flexing, myself, trapped
so that someone else might save me. legs
crossed on the plastic countertop, hands
wedged underneath my thighs,
no part of me brave enough to call
a wound. my name sits on the teeth.
he wants to be held. who doesn’t?
heart a door so heavy it hasn’t been opened
in decades. in the dark kitchen, I sit
on the countertop & tongue my name
off a silver spoon. it tastes
like lemon curd, sugar stinging
my unwounded tongue. wound:
any muscle strained to rupture
my heart studs me with splinters
sharp as a bone shard
or a white-knuckled fist behind the back.
I tip back my skull’s flattest plane against
the cabinet & my name like a pearl falls
down the throat & I choke.
paint peels from wood like fingers
gentling after a punch. I want blood like wet
forkfuls of thread split along the knuckles.
I want you, anyone that will have me--
a hand to pull me open, to pull me to my feet.
a hand to hold. I want you real
so I name you a body, both your palms pressed
to the wood, but it is wrongsided, futile
even in desire, my heart, a door useful
as wall, and I, alone in a small
dark kitchen, I am so sorry,
this is as far as we go, I am so sorry you tried.
I tire of my martyrdom—another
name made of sour fruit.
I sit with Fear, who never leaves me,
constant & forgotten as shadow.
she slips her fingers in my mouth
& I bite down, spoon her warm skin
down the tongue. she knows my name,
speaks it often, & this I will call love
in the absence of something sweeter,
my heart, I’ll call a door, so I am spared
any flexing, myself, trapped
so that someone else might save me. legs
crossed on the plastic countertop, hands
wedged underneath my thighs,
no part of me brave enough to call
a wound. my name sits on the teeth.
he wants to be held. who doesn’t?
nocturne with dirt
it is February & there is nothing pure.
my heart is a disaster. the winter’s even
worse, souring to dirty snow like the
breath of a lover under morning light.
what a pathetic painting this makes for:
me, my blue coat useless in Connecticut
night as I squat ungracefully to look at
slush. tears gunk me & I blame the wind.
I love no one well. my hands & lazy
tongue atrophy in their pockets & every
kind lover sits unbeloved once I get a good
look, sick on the inevitable stink of all well-
washed bodies. tonight, the cold purples
my frozen nose, though there is no one here
to see it. it’s for the best, really. why waste
Prussian Blue on such a pitiful scene,
dirt on my foolish hands as I try to scrape
snow clean. I just wanted one pure thing.
I knew it was unreasonable, but I wanted it
anyway. I didn’t want to cry on my birthday,
still a few days away, but there is no lover
so filthy as time, no mess like my body in
their bed. mud tracked onto the sheets,
their tongue in my armpit, dirt under their
fingernails. no lover so filthy as time. none
so easily derided, even as I climb back into
their body, unable to do without. I am cold
& cruel & I am not pure. I want a body to
dissolve in, like I am more salt than dirt,
like a body is not worse for my coming inside.
my heart is a disaster. the winter’s even
worse, souring to dirty snow like the
breath of a lover under morning light.
what a pathetic painting this makes for:
me, my blue coat useless in Connecticut
night as I squat ungracefully to look at
slush. tears gunk me & I blame the wind.
I love no one well. my hands & lazy
tongue atrophy in their pockets & every
kind lover sits unbeloved once I get a good
look, sick on the inevitable stink of all well-
washed bodies. tonight, the cold purples
my frozen nose, though there is no one here
to see it. it’s for the best, really. why waste
Prussian Blue on such a pitiful scene,
dirt on my foolish hands as I try to scrape
snow clean. I just wanted one pure thing.
I knew it was unreasonable, but I wanted it
anyway. I didn’t want to cry on my birthday,
still a few days away, but there is no lover
so filthy as time, no mess like my body in
their bed. mud tracked onto the sheets,
their tongue in my armpit, dirt under their
fingernails. no lover so filthy as time. none
so easily derided, even as I climb back into
their body, unable to do without. I am cold
& cruel & I am not pure. I want a body to
dissolve in, like I am more salt than dirt,
like a body is not worse for my coming inside.
Uma Dwivedi is a rising junior at Yale University. They are originally from Seattle, Washington. They have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Black Warrior Review, and other previous and forthcoming publications include Muzzle Magazine, Hayden's Ferry Review, Cosmonaut’s Avenue, the minnesota review, and Diode Poetry Journal. Catch them watching Winnie the Pooh or the Paddington movies.
Prachi Valechha is a freelance cartoonist and animator from India. Valechha loves to make Toons and Toons for Tunes.
You can find more of their work at: instagram.com/rainbowteeth
You can find more of their work at: instagram.com/rainbowteeth
