Vandana Khanna

[The oracles say there is no hope]

The oracles say there is no hope for me. My heart
remains a disputed territory. All my small miseries
on display. The poets keep forgetting the words
to the old songs—everything off-beat, sung in
the lonesome meter of loss. Most stories are made
by villains trying too hard. And you, a wonder—
a husband fixed to a landscape of too much blue.
You remember me as a wife given back to the world.
Glossed bit of ruby in a forgettable face. Red spell
with salt teeth. The rustle of silk between my legs,
a siren’s song. Even after all these years, our love
runs fathoms and fathoms deep. And still, the oracles
don’t know how hard it is to push to the surface, to hold
our breath until we find that shallow light to break over us.