Altitude by Jyothsnaphanija

I think of your name, when I am fully flamed in your guilt.

Your name: like a pierce, a storm, sleep; like the disturbing flap of a wing,

My secondary vein of a leaf.

I think of how you said you collected clear dew drops.

I disliked clarity at that time, much like I disliked  anything clear, 


rain on a leaf. 

I longed for the hazy earth, hazy compositions, abstractness – like tree rustle.

I wanted to know why you wanted clarity, something I could never be.

I saw your hands becoming older, overworked from  the same factory of learning.

I will never say what I see before me now, a constantly moving shade, a phantom’s voice spilling. 

I forget what I see in the split,

Before a song can reach its second half

Or as the day splits into four.

Jyothsnaphanija teaches English Literature at ARSD College (University of Delhi), India. Her
first poetry collection Ceramic Evening was out in 2016. Her poems most recently have appeared and are forthcoming in The Handy, Uncapped Pen, Wishbone Words, The Hopper, Bosphorus review of books and others. She blogs at

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