Everything But the Kiss by Reshma Mirchandani


A spinner’s glass

can halt en masse

a breath

that was not made to last

A celestial noise

wanes despair through the poise

of needing

the light of one choice.

Can you see

what I mean

when I draw

my own skin at the seam?

This is my lingering croix

the missing tantra

of two inch flesh

sunders the love mantra.

Who will break the distance

of a fasting instance

for a weakened bond

beyond an old nuisance?

I dig gravely

for a sign that’s free

for our life

beyond lightening over the tree.