Virahārdram (വിരഹാർദ്രം)‡

Sometimes      he’s a mouth
that wakes me
 ….in a morning
storm
a river-stone
…..lodged        in the clay
of my throat        he’s not
…………..my stoplight
in the snow
I tell
myself
….while      careening
through     an endless
……….”””carousel
of his selves        with edges
…..crumbling
like rusted            razor blades
……my fingers
fall
severed        I take
..”’my tongue
to the river mouth
…………..’curl one toe
over another     to blur
…………..every        disorder
they’ve      named
…..inside me     I search
for him
…”in slurred    light
that bends
twice
…..through the delta
of my      sedimented
..”’longing
his absence        fills me
…”like     saltwater.