Tonight the moon dismantles itself throwing a crescent on the earth
while the sea in my veins evaporate.
I lay on the bed watching home turning into a forbidden territory
like the fruit that marked existence of the life
and pain
and grief came along in the birthday present.

I try to write a haiku
until my throat chokes on the syllables
and forgets the count.

The crescent descends the seven skies,
and falls on the first layer of the earth
as if prostrating.
The darkness in my ribs expand gushing blood into the dried veins
and I wonder if blood can replace the water
(only if we break enough hearts
to begin a war for transplants)

Assembling my words on the floor
I write another haiku :
there lies the blue wound
of the unending sky as
dismantled moon.

Is the pain analogue for the moon?
Am I the moon?

Certainly,
for tonight I dismantle the ribs,
place them on the edge of the world
until there is nothing left
but a crescent
prostrating as the sea rises
vanishing in grief.

©Sameera Mansuri 2020.

The poet first appeared on The Poetic Elixir.