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Apr 2022 · 212
Marsha Singh Apr 2022
I am a hot little dumpling of a
woman, fragrant pillows, dimples—
I am a sweet and steamy comfort,
silky victuals, spiced and biblical,
for a man of pow'rful hunger.
Dec 2021 · 316
The magic
Marsha Singh Dec 2021
is gone; no shiny coin
or sacred fawn or star
to set our compass on.
Nov 2021 · 304
En garde!
Marsha Singh Nov 2021
We're old swords, my
lovely— dogged, not
learning from the two
hundred years that our
city's been burning; we're
just ashes to ashes and
in between, yearning.
May 2021 · 186
Marsha Singh May 2021
All night delighting,
then a duel at dawn;
next time let's not
wait so long.
Aug 2020 · 234
My heart on a stick.
Marsha Singh Aug 2020
It's what you wanted,
right? A prime cut, cool
in the middle and hot
to the touch— toothsome
and tender, fresh from the
embers, a just-how-you-like-it bite.
May 2020 · 218
Buck Moon
Marsha Singh May 2020
That July,
I was a jar
of fireflies;
you held
me in your
hands. I
lit up your eyes.
May 2020 · 178
Hungry days
Marsha Singh May 2020
On hungry days, I hail
the hunt, squint my
eyes and spin my guns.
Your heart runs by.
I count to one.
Marsha Singh Apr 2020
At least my cherry tree
will blossom soon.
Mar 2020 · 168
Marsha Singh Mar 2020
I've had to struggle
for every good thing.
You came easy.
Feb 2020 · 134
Marsha Singh Feb 2020
There's always one who knows
best, one who makes her best
guess, always one who just left, one
who wore her best dress; one you'll never
see again, and one you will. Amen.
Oct 2019 · 183
Getting ready
Marsha Singh Oct 2019
I tell the girls to pick up
their clothes, to make
their beds, brush their
hair; I tell the girls to
tuck in their entitlement and
pull up their despair – there's no time.
I tell the girls to be kind, to build
up their sisters like each word is
communion and that girl is divine.
Jan 2019 · 382
Marsha Singh Jan 2019
Look, I am shook from my
shallows, ten thousand leagues
deep – my heartbeats were war-
ships; you drowned the whole
fleet, but I'll hold on to hope like
sand holds on to heat that for all of
my troubles, you could love me, at least.
Dec 2018 · 346
Better than never.
Marsha Singh Dec 2018
Too late when you realized
we were dancing in quicksand –
too late and too deep, and you caught
unaware; you didn't know that my love was an
ambush. You didn't know that my heart was a snare.
Nov 2018 · 369
Marsha Singh Nov 2018
We brought breakfast.
You fed us; we let you.
We sighed and we said that
we'd never forget you; we get you.
And then we licked our
spoons and we left you.
Sep 2018 · 490
You dimmed the lights
Marsha Singh Sep 2018
and invited the moon into the
room – a stranger, she stole
through the night to our chambers,
a bevy of damsels to carry her candles.
She lit up our eyes; she lit up our skin
like our skin was the sky.
Then she loaned me her robe and she kissed me goodbye.
Aug 2018 · 352
Marsha Singh Aug 2018
We came with wet
eyes, with teeth bright
as planets; we came like
weather, like daylight, hair
damp and skin flushed.

We came like sunup.

We woke the birds up.
Jul 2018 · 272
Marsha Singh Jul 2018
if you asked,
I'd slide your shirt
down your shoulders;
I'd hold you. I'd heal you.
Christie, I feel you. I know you –
your nature, the real you. I'd kneel
here. I'd shield you. Christie, I need you.
A word game I played with myself. Sometimes, I just want to make something pretty.
Jul 2018 · 382
same thing, only different
Marsha Singh Jul 2018
the world aches to de-
light me, shakes her
wild hair and flirts; she
also lies and beguiles
and sometimes she hurts.
After sleeping on it, I feel like this is the poem I should have written, but I just can't bear to put the other one out of its misery.
Jun 2018 · 765
still love her
Marsha Singh Jun 2018
the world aches to de-
light me – it shakes its
wild hair and struts; it
also lies and philanders
and sometimes it cuts.
Jun 2018 · 587
So, I'm a survivor now.
Marsha Singh Jun 2018
They think my nerves are cold
steel; they call me unnn-real, like
I'm a big deal; they think I'm all
fight, that I've gained deeper in-
sight. Like I'm alright. Like I don't
cry. And all I did was not die.
I had cancer. Then I didn't.
May 2018 · 460
Marsha Singh May 2018
I like when you
invent fire, when
you discover the sun,
when you say hush woman
hush, believe this – we are one
Mar 2018 · 10.5k
Marsha Singh Mar 2018
Next time I wake from sleep
for keeps – from deepest, darkest
slumber – I may come back a little
bird to visit in the summer; my
quetzal pomp, green feathered
grace, singing through my hunger –
when I am gone, I may come back
your pretty bird, a wonder.
Nov 2017 · 720
From a stopped train
Marsha Singh Nov 2017
Not my stop, but
still the thought of
leaving makes my
heart feel hot – to cross
beneath the buzzing light,
softly into this crisp night.
Nov 2017 · 687
The Aftermath
Marsha Singh Nov 2017
hair freed,
closed blinds –
supine and un-
done, heart like
a warm gun.
Nov 2017 · 474
Marsha Singh Nov 2017
I love how we
sound together –
your crackle of
laughter up the chimes
of my spine, and the
hush hush hush of
my satisfied mind.
Oct 2017 · 482
The vanity tour is over;
Marsha Singh Oct 2017
now every second is
like the embers of
beggars: tended.
Maybe I've finally grown up.
Sep 2017 · 610
My footprint will be small.
Marsha Singh Sep 2017
I won't leave much
more than a happy
ghost when I am gone –

some poems, a peace-
ful soul at rest, some
tired, tranquil bones,

quite content to dis-
appear, no tomb
or mossy stone.

My days were sweet,
and bright; I hope
I honored every one.
Just thinking about mortality lately, and feeling at peace with it.
Jan 2017 · 809
A Dream about Dying
Marsha Singh Jan 2017
It was a sturdy ship that I
went down in, and it felt like
rebirth when I drowned and
emerged from the tumbling
surf to wring out my hair and
tie a knot in my skirt. (I learned
to breathe by nearly drowning.)
Jan 2017 · 970
Marsha Singh Jan 2017
On thirsty days
I curse the sun,
kick up dirt and
beat my drums
and call the rain

(it always comes.)
Jan 2017 · 928
Every so often –
Marsha Singh Jan 2017
The sheets yet to cool and the sun yet
to rise, I've already practiced an easy
goodbye– but seeing you wreathed in
sheets, sleepy, pleased, feels unkind when
you're just a dream I have sometimes.
Jan 2017 · 823
That was then.
Marsha Singh Jan 2017
All the poems I wrote for you
were fond hyperbole; your hands
were not the saving kind and you
tasted nothing like the sea.
This is now.
Jan 2017 · 881
Women my Age
Marsha Singh Jan 2017
We still think
we're ripe figs, saplings
green and sweet 'neath supple
bark, hearts still sticky,
fruit still ****.
Feb 2016 · 1.7k
Marsha Singh Feb 2016
I called to you 
softly when I 
was young; my
voice bounced off 
the bricks of a 
suburban slum,
sauntered down 
side streets and 
stirred piles of 
leaves, then snagged 
in the branches till 
the wind tore it free 

to collapse at your 
window like a 
weary songbird
that had been 
singing for decades 
and finally, you heard.
Feb 2016 · 736
Making up
Marsha Singh Feb 2016
You asked about it later,
in the best way you knew how
as I was tracing dreamy cursive
on your neck; I sighed across
your skin just like a cool front
blowing in and said –  It
doesn't even matter. I forget
Jan 2016 · 2.2k
Glory, glory
Marsha Singh Jan 2016
At night we were a fresco 
painted by an astronaut, our 
messy bed the chapel of a
voyeuristic God, where glory 
worked with hurried hands
in frenzied fellowship and
hallelujah was a sigh that
quivered on my lips, then we
nodded off like angels of our
own apocalypse; it was made-up
love, when we woke up,
the dreamed up stuff of kids.
A refurbished oldie. Feeling nostalgic.
Dec 2013 · 2.0k
Things I Can't Forget
Marsha Singh Dec 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.
Nov 2013 · 1.6k
Marsha Singh Nov 2013
temporarily unavailable
May 2013 · 2.0k
Make that one eighty two.
Marsha Singh May 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
May 2013 · 1.6k
I know better now.
Marsha Singh May 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?
May 2013 · 1.5k
Marsha Singh May 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.
May 2013 · 2.3k
The beekeeper's mistress
Marsha Singh May 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.
Apr 2013 · 1.4k
Marsha Singh Apr 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.
Apr 2013 · 1.6k
Stop Motion
Marsha Singh Apr 2013
I remember you like accidental
photographs: sun flare, skin,
the tops of trees. Knees. Your shirt-
sleeves in a dove grey breeze. (I arrange
the photos like a slow striptease.)
Apr 2013 · 1.6k
Marsha Singh Apr 2013
This is what he promised me:
August, and berries that fell
right into my hands; he
promised me handstands. He
promised me bees, he said
the nights would smell sweet
and wet flower petals would
stick to my toes. He said I'd
just know. He promised me
sparrows, and switchgrass that
crept past the hem of my skirt.
He promised me clean dirt, and
hard work. He promised an
August that I'd always remember,
then stayed 'til November.
Mar 2013 · 1.3k
Marsha Singh Mar 2013
A last incinerating kiss, then
the exponential loss of  bliss–
take my heart and divide by
you; leave me with poems and
warm anecdotes that I'll store
away like Marie Curie's notes:
still hot, still toxic, still true.
Mar 2013 · 1.4k
I practiced love
Marsha Singh Mar 2013
I didn't know your name back then.
I practiced love with other men.
I burned my lips on words like yes.
I didn't know your name back then.

I practiced love with other men—
a reckless, shipwrecked malcontent;
a willing, waiting queen undressed,

I burned my lips on words like yes.
I warmly, weakly acquiesced
and woke to wonder if I'd dreamt.

I didn't know your name back then.
I studied sin with other men
and broke my heart on words like when.
Previously published in Lucid Rhythms, 2011
Mar 2013 · 1.3k
I'm not a nature writer.
Marsha Singh Mar 2013
I can't write about miles of sown fields
or the absence of rain
or silver minnows in a cold creek

without also imagining
how the sky would look from underneath you.

I can't write about sugaring season
or my grandmother's barn on a foggy morning
or the thrum of an August day

without also imagining
kissing each one of your berry-stained fingers.
Previously published in Lucid Rhythms, 2011
Mar 2012 · 2.9k
I keep an appetite.
Marsha Singh Mar 2012
For the same reasons that I stay hungry
for dinner and tired for bed, I keep my
heart a little lonely for poetry; that way,
I can imagine your weathered hands against
my pale thighs as clinging starfish – my
fingernails, bleached cockleshells washed up
on the barely evening beach of your back.
Mar 2012 · 1.8k
Marsha Singh Mar 2012
No Garden, but this stand of
pines, and no serpents just this
side of night, but a sleepy,
startled porcupine; I'll offer you
some apple wine. You'll kiss
me in the fading light; I'll love
you without shame this time.
Mar 2012 · 3.2k
Space-time Paradox
Marsha Singh Mar 2012
If time is a convincing illusion, then as I am writing this,
you are reading it; you are remembering me years after
we have spoken last, and I am noticing you for the first time.

I'm a young woman waking up in an apartment in Albany,
New York, realizing that I am finally broken enough to fix,
and an East Boston moppet in ***** pink overalls, riding
Big Wheels through the sprinklers with a boy named John Henry.

You're delivering newspapers on a cold New Hampshire morning.
I am falling asleep wondering if you could possibly love me.
You are saying that you do. You are stardust, and I am long gone.
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