I am talking my way back to the poem’s turn and where it might lie outside my skirted body, a corded place where bluish sky paints my attention, and empties itself into a golden silence— without talk or sound. Phrases now feel perversely sentient and yet devilishly wrong. Every night I talk with the hope that speech itself will burn me its one true alphabet. Nevertheless, morning’s magic always looks opaque because a stronger feeling replaced the lesser one, and the rightness must reach the poem’s hearted center so that I am led to what might be a plateau of nested changes, something irresistible, those letters of gold, maybe anew.

This poem is from Prageeta Sharma’s new book, Onement Won.

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