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by Jugni Jahaz

I am trying to explain to you I am more
interesting in my language, but the truth is
hindi is a warzone with thunder and blunt
edges, and my feet slipping always. This
is old: in every postcolonial textbook, genre
of love. Tired: to see myself see you see
me see us lying in bed, strung unstuck
on orb web, eight taut eyes witnessing.

What is new: when floundering I say
us       india
and then strain to kaleidoscope
the gag, unmean from this corner when
I only want to translate for you the small
things, like battery and stench of rain
after the marriage of frogs. This is our
romance laced with unancient violence,
honey from saffron-gold lotus. It sticks

and fire ants invade the room. Let’s eat them,
you say. And we do, until anthills hot blister
from recesses unknown, and what crumbles
is my resolve against being ardent and
banal. So hold my body, this frame,
tongues, daft and plural in all the usual ways.
So behold the cavity, these caveats, territory of
laughter, in peals even when uncomprehending.

Jugni Jahaz writes poetry in order to pay attention to the world. They can be found most commonly procrastinating at a library, going for long walks, or befriending dogs in their neighborhood