Anna Oneglia   © 2013 All Rights Reserved

A sonnet for the men I didnít love

Listen to the treeís cold breath, see how itís grown
accustomed to solitude. Listen, sound of air filling
brown paper bags. No strings attached, just the bone
with its muted warning and the light unwilling
to shine. And the body with all its need, breaking
open at a touch. And how I made love to a man
because he couldnít recall his fatherís face. Aching
is what the heart knows. I used to collect sand
from everywhere Iíd been. If only our atoms
didnít devour themselves. Kiss my closed eyes,
my sun-dappled breasts
. What I mean is, plums.
Or chrysanthemums. Iíll say it simply: the sighs
of dying birds fill the cracks in walls
. What I mean is,
I have bread; bring wine, a dozen red roses.


Shivani Mehta
Copyright © 2013  

Shivani Mehtaís first book, Useful Information for the Soon-to-be Beheaded, is out from Press 53. Her work has appeared in numerous journals. Shivani was born in Mumbai and raised in Singapore. A recovering lawyer and accomplished mother of toddler twins, she lives in Los Angeles with her family.

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