Issue 2.7

Gypsum When daybreak spades its slurry on the wall, a perfection in gypsum quickens in my eye and I ask myself if god labors in the trades, and if there is delight in what would seem a good day’s work: an arabesque, a dance swayed by what hardens far too soon. Practiced in the art of the trowel, I imagine a god fixed on its work, the wide arcs of it, the crusted wrists, the muscled strokes like rivers cut through on a plain and gentle slope, knowing the end must be a sheen with neither pit nor crease. And when daybreak spades its slurry on the wall I know I have been prepared for this—a life upon which death would smear its tints like a child or a Jackson Pollock. And if not that, then the preferred hues of the day—the neutrals, mute and hung with what might seem bucolic. While I must admit that the stone, the gypsum is ground elsewhere, I must also admit that it is I who will smooth what I’ve come to regard as a wall, and it is I who must press the keys squarely into the laths nailed such that they may at long last bear me up.

The Construction Labourers Before the newborn sun climbs to the crest Of this numbed earth and night receives relief, Their morning prayers and rituals are complete. Their dress code's just a miry inner vest, Pied loincloths, plus, at times, a handkerchief Worn on the head to push the stinging heat When they work on our terrace during noon. Three rangy chaps, in this long month of June, Are hired to renovate our second floor. Sweat glistens on their skin as if fresh varnish Spread on a wooden deck reflects its shine. For lunch, they have white rice with water poured On it, some fries; they like it plain, ungarnished. And then, a flask of lemon tea is fine To keep the flow of zing alive in them Until it's time to leave at 5 p.m. One in this group appears to be too young; I wonder if he ever thinks of school. The rest are middle-aged, so it seems. While chewing betel, in an eastern tongue, They talk about their village, little pool, And farms. Their eyes display enormous dreams. Three rawboned men far from their native place, A hue of hope and longing on each face.

Scenes in May Prostrated stray dogs of these lanes Look half-deceased; dust on the ground @tabEnvelops them from gut to chest. @tabAnd when the noon sun does its best, They find respite in open drains, As water's nowhere to be found. Just past a field that's not too far And once a home to crocuses, @tabA chockablock, old market street @tab(With fly-stormed briskets parched by heat) Stinks up the air. The buyers are Like vultures flocked near carcasses. By rail tracks, homeless people sleep Beside hard beds of hot granite. @tabUnclad and scorched from feet to hands @tabLike corpses on cremation lands, They dwell with no relief to keep Each white-hot day and foodless night.

Vascular blue like currents red like blood lattice network one by one blue like death screen red like flash 4D lenses looking glass blue like glowing red like hot needle sewing neon spots blue like oceans red like Mars interstellar carbon scars blue like piercing red like pain grieving heartland maxed out brain blue like twelve bars red like beat tachycardic Venus heat

Verdigris gold like backlit green like moss molten statue pour the dross gold like five star green like home single sunlamp heat-lapse bomb gold like ancient green like wild strong force latent inner child gold like ages green like spring revolution finds the king gold like privilege green like god ever present body song gold like chosen green like found carbon life forms in the ground

I Am a Hephzibah So thanksgiving is the foundation of worship, a joyful noise, the celebration of glory; but here is the valley of dry bones, skull against skull, sinews against sinews, and I cannot raise my voice beyond this sphere, where darkness has slowly moved in, stifled me to silence, struck me tame. My praise cannot go to the grave of flowers, waste and destruction, the tomb of death, where there is nothing more left to worship in the elevation of favour. I dwell in the depths of sorrow and pain, where thorns scratch my soft flesh, and prickles abound in the vast void, nothing green, so nothing grows, except the march towards dust. I feel the wide trenches in my heart, yearning for fulfilment and delight. Yet, I am thankful to have this hope like a mustard seed seeping into my mouth; each time, I want to curse my state that gives no glory to my body, those who, through flesh, invite fear. So, I will arise like the rod of Aaron, the dead and wooden staff of a man, which blossoms after glory falls like a tongue of flame from the sky, and makes him the caretaker of his people. The rod is fertile ground, flowers rising flowers bringing forth fruit, flowers producing seeds for eternity. From this pit, I ascend towards Heaven to become the delight of the Lord, a Hephzibah, springing from desolation to the throne of restoration as my life of pain disappears like dew.