Rajat Jayanti

The dead branch inscribes wild 
to-do lists on the wind. How many moons

since we first woke up, lip against lip
knowing our kitchen sink

of years has dripped away: papers, continents,
coffee stains, the drawers jammed open

in astonishment? You put your mouth to me
when I sliced my hand to keep me from losing

even a drop of our life. As for the rest:
blackbird shouting in the black walnut tree,

afternoon sun cutting the ground into roses, 
night banging on and on at the gate.

For a few years now how we’ve tried to accept
we won’t ever be back to this particular quarrel

of sheets, to this exact plastic milk-jug morning,
opening our eyes together, again, yes

once more, again, how ferocious that shock 
of light carving its own vows on each other’s skin.