Akhila Jagdish is from the
Washington, D.C area and has
spent time in New York, Ireland
and Washington, D.C.  She spends
her free time reading anything she
can get her hands on, especially
poetry anthologies.  She is
currently working on a larger
collection of poetry tentatively
titled "A Series of Poems on Grief".
 

Akhila Jagdish

Kiss



The Kiss was like almonds –

Painfully sweet, delicately bitter.



It was One Kiss that burnt her memory –

The Kiss of Time under the stormy skies.

A sudden deluge hit as they sat outside a coffee shop

Drinking coke.  Haphazard raindrops hit them as they spoke

Making them slightly wet.  They ran into the rain, bathed instantly.

And in the calm, that brief period of unsettled tranquility in a storm

They Kissed.  A long, hard, passionate Kiss.



It is usually the Last Kiss that makes the most indelible of impressions –

Giving you the answers that you thought had no questions.

But it is also that Last Kiss that is the most tragic.

For deep down in the dark, mysterious recessed of your heart

Where the Truth lies naked, stripped of any pretense –

You realize, know, finally understand.

Just like the light of a dying star,

The Last Kiss fades elegantly, strangely beautiful into the night.



***



Forgetting



My sister ran away one cold spring morning when she was 15.  

She had taken four green apples and a picture of me.    



I can remember walking into her room, messy

And not decorated like other little girls' rooms.  



Plaid shirts and cords piled high in the corner

About to drown the only doll she loved.



She came back two and a half weeks later, happy

Yet filled with a silent sense of tragedy.



The first thing she did was hold her doll.

And slowly, place her in the garbage.



I can still remember the smell of

Her hair as we ran down the sidewalk.



***



The Bed on the Cliff by the Ocean



I could have sat all day on that bed.  The one on the cliff, overlooking the ocean.

The cold wind blowing into my face.  Cuddling up in the covers.

Sitting and just staring.



From my bed by the water, I could see

Small, white waves of foam rolling into the cliff.  

I could hear the water as it crashed.  Against the rocks and crevices.



I could have sat on that bed all day.  Clutching my blankey.  

The pink thing my mother gave me to replace

The blankey I used to have when I was younger.



From that bed, I could see the clouds rolling over the sky.   Huge, thick

Clouds.  Black and white.  Sun dappling on the outer edges.  

Illuminating the world.  With eerie calm.



The coldness forced tears out of my eyes.  The force of the

Wind whipped my hair across my face.  Lashing at me.



If only I could have stayed on that bed for the rest of my life.



***



Hunger



She ate the book in a week.  

Tore its pages from its spine and put it into her mouth.  

Slowly chewing, letters dropped off of words,

Into her starving mouth.  

She ate the book in a week.



She continues her search for another book.  

A thick, large book with small print.  

It would take her longer to finish.  

She searched for a book about

Storms and dreams and infinite darkness and the colour

heartache takes on when it is shown to the world.



She sips ginger tea by the fire.  

A blank journal in front of her.  

Pen poised.  

She cannot think of a thing to write.



So she devours the empty pages of her journal.  

There are no letters dripping of off words this time, there is a calm silence.  



As her teeth rip the darkness apart.