unshriven 
                  they say you must abolish your self.   
                  others burn their lack with bourbon,  
                    fall into the easy incandescence  
                    of the night.  they  juggle their intoxication 
                    and selves, a furious circus. 
                    they scare off what they seek.  
                  but you—you are here for me. 
                  among my many selves 
                    i keep you close to me— 
                    a dazzling future tense, 
                    a pastless, unrelenting be, 
                    a footprint sandstorms disappear.    
                  some say forgetting is just another door. 
                    tell me, dear one, tell me again,  
                  just what was it i was looking for? 
                    
                  shrive 
                  step over the threshold  
                    where i wait for you.   a tongue cleft from stone 
                  am i that bled  
                  when cut by a farmer’s scythe.   
                    cradled in his arms and fussed over  
                    like an only child,  
                  my wounds stanched,  
                    they plied me with sweets, dressed me  
                    in cotton stained with my blood,  
                  fed me their pain  
                    like milk as i devoured their years,  
                    feasted on their loss.  
                  temple walls rose around me, 
                    humans like flowers at my feet. 
                    Sculpting the seashell’s hull to infinity 
                  i am where monks astonish themselves— 
                    am the truth from which you try to hide:  
                    you are your mother’s death. 
                  yet you still come before me as if i were a key  
                    to the door— 
                    your door.  your  mother’s. 
                  i am her last mouthful of breath, 
                    her gasp, her moan  
                    i make into a hymn for you now:  
                  the hum of skin  
                    sweating against skin. turn to me, next to you  
                    and tell me of yourself—  
                  i want to hear,  
                    i’m one of the few— 
                  don’t turn away.    
                  
                    
                   
                   
                  Vikas  K. Menon is a poet and playwright whose poems have appeared or are forthcoming  in publications such as The Literary  Review, New Delta Review, MIPOESIAS, Bitter Oleander, Catamaran,  and the Toronto Review.  His poetry manuscript godflesh was a finalist for the 2010 Kinereth Gensler Award from  Alice James Books. His poetry has been featured in Indivisible:  An Anthology of  South Asian American Poetry and is forthcoming in The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry by Indians.  He is a board member of Kundiman, the first  organization of its kind dedicated to supporting Asian-American poetry, and is  the Resident Playwright of Ruffled Feathers Theater company.  He received his MFA (Poetry) from Brooklyn  College and his MA in Literature from St. Louis University. 
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