Soham Patel

Issue 13 • April 2014

I collapse in succulent reach.  So we’re finished and just beginning, as in: here it’s dawn’s light and she’s on her bike—her scarf waving and wind behind her flinted neck.

This is what I’ve seen through a window in my living room but what is it I am looking for?

For the up/down grades her muscles push, pull, then turn into her in this moment as an idea through flame.

Her exterior in seven colors I see between my routine of waking, morning, water, fruit and tea.

She was never here and she’s gone and I can still hear her breathe between the scrapes of any chain’s rust.

If this scene is only imagined impermanence—let the cardinal’s pause on the sweet gum branch just outside my window be, too.

The bird chirps sounding like the rusty chain I spoke of.

If she hobbles in her platforms, the bicycle is so she can get away—if she comes back I will ask her: what is your good name?