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Every poem is a coat of arms. -Jean Cocteau
Every poem is a coat of arms. -Jean Cocteau
Marsha Singh
Marsha Singh
Dec 9, 2013      Dec 10, 2013

You were hard
like sun-warmed
stone, your
eyelashes were
feathers – these
are things I can't
forget; I'll write
you poems forever.

Marsha Singh
Marsha Singh
Nov 21, 2013      Nov 22, 2013

temporarily unavailable

Marsha Singh
Marsha Singh
May 19, 2013      May 20, 2013

I have written you one
hundred and eighty
one poems about stars
and blackberries fat
as thumbs, and your
hands and sweet
plums, because that's
what I do:
word play, cabaret –
but if these are just myths
I perpetuate because I'm
a perpetual liar, believe me
                                            anyway.

Marsha Singh
Marsha Singh
May 13, 2013      May 13, 2013

My mother washed potatoes
one by one while my father
went carousing with his
favorite gun; I dragged sticks
through dusty gravel while
I watched it all unravel,
wondering what to make of
such an ugly thing as love.

Happy Mother's Day?
Marsha Singh
Marsha Singh
May 3, 2013

Your absence has drawn
fractions on my belly. It's
bisected the axis of my
heart; it has split me apart.
I am charts and statistics.
I'm percents. You were sharp.
So was I; when I left, I cut
those halves into fourths.
I left one in your bed, now
I'm three quarters saved
and one quarter spent.

Marsha Singh
Marsha Singh
May 3, 2013      May 3, 2013

woke every morning and
dressed in the sun, then
dreamt in the breezeway
where the day's laundry
hung. She listened for
him in the summery hum;
sometimes she was honey,
sometimes she was stung.

Marsha Singh
Marsha Singh
Apr 25, 2013      Apr 25, 2013

Unassuming, at best– no
tempting minx, I confess,
but this I would bet (speaking
humbly): give me paper and
ink, half an hour to think– I might
just convince you to love me.

 
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