Unfinished by Reshma Mirchandani


The solace of a spirit spared

unravels the afterthought

of a journey imperiled.

With the brazen cusp of

no turns

was she ready to

fly into the great unknown.

A premium breadth of the profane

in the course of “who wins?”

staggered from her impaled lips.

A prolonged deafness

amidst the trenches of “how?”

hazed the lift of her song.

A predictable machination

during the war of “yes” or “no”

loses its beat with well-timed synchronicity.

Duty to this life calls

to a reparable heart

in the line of fire.

In the end, she speaks, she sings, she knows, she lives

even in the dangling combat of suspension.

Property destruction

bears more lashings than

bearing upon the house that built me.

The crevices of my weary eyes, the arch of my back,

the sultry softness of my thighs

all stroked

to the beat of someone else’s drum.

Thrusting in the air

his denominational heir

into my desert garden.

Fruits do not bear

the sweetness

of the one I knew.

His spirit lived in me

and mine lived in him

which filled my otherwise hollow spine.

But his love was there,

and it garnered a

rebirth I would not take back…

A factional weariness

seers in my veins

or a probable blood tear.

Saturated overflows

of a heart stained imprint

to that life patch quilt.

He is me

and I am him

from the design of my spear.

I look to you with no cherished fear.