after Kaveh Akbar
Rhododendra grow through stone and imperia
grow through the lighthouse foghorns knocking
on condense night. The moon governs
gestural intent into running tar. Best

leave a constellation out again
tomorrow: uncorked, decanted, to breathe
in the song of a curious sun god going dark,
or out an ashen palace somewhere
diegetic. The stars will taste of what you
find tempting and undivine. Can’t
the next dawn reset me? Can I see
the smoke or does it know this
sky to hold more fire? There are hands
in my hands. I move.
                                       

(Poet’s note: This poem is a variant of the golden shovel form, using a sentence from Kaveh Akbar’s poem “The Palace”:

“A king governs best/in the dark, where you can’t see his hands move.”)

© 2024 Sneha Mohidekar