2020 / POETRY / AUTHOR
SETH JANI
NIGHTSHADE
…
The chestnut-colored sky bends down
to scoop me in its hands.
I am a child of rain, of dark dimensions.
The wind is born in my mouth like a word
harsh as hoarfrost. There’s no language that
equals the sun in uttered radiance. It’s why
we’re always dying to write paeans to the
light, to wring the shadows from our lives.
Somewhere there is a garden full of
night-blooming plants, each one as deadly
and beautiful as the snare-songs of love. I
cup one blue petal and hold it to your
mouth. It fills with false water. All the
gods of hunger and paradise shimmer in
that bleak eye.
AUTUMN
…
The paper leaves are tumbling to the earth
like old newsprint flushed out by rain. They
are the smoking guns at summer’s end,
littering the sidewalk like ashes after the
blitzkrieg. All these sacrifices turn into the
golden light of autumn. The blood forms a
river. We float inwards, hugging reflections
as we drown.
Even this insubstantial, second moon
is enough to make my heart ecstatic.
Li Po died from such delusion,
but he didn’t regret it.
And neither do I, holding these many
fires closer to my flesh.
