Karen Boissoneault-Gauthier, Sunrise in San Francisco
How Not to Be
Oindri Sengupta
Sometimes all I want to do is just breathe.
After sleeping with a spoonful of stars
Under my skin
I forgot those scalded hands
That scooped a day out of those nights.
Sleeping is oblivion’s second child.
The fireflies that invade my night
Are the droplets of an ocean I saw–
When my eyes wore the blue water of a fig tree
To dissipate the glowing wind.
Sometimes all I want to do is just breathe.
The entire sea inside my lungs.
Carry me to the edge of the moon and
I would tell you where the heart of
Winter lies.
Oindri Sengupta
Sometimes all I want to do is just breathe.
After sleeping with a spoonful of stars
Under my skin
I forgot those scalded hands
That scooped a day out of those nights.
Sleeping is oblivion’s second child.
The fireflies that invade my night
Are the droplets of an ocean I saw–
When my eyes wore the blue water of a fig tree
To dissipate the glowing wind.
Sometimes all I want to do is just breathe.
The entire sea inside my lungs.
Carry me to the edge of the moon and
I would tell you where the heart of
Winter lies.