Featured Poem • December 2015
A book all writ in stars Wreathed in old wishes So polished, the sky Slides off its surface At last, at last, she cries And combs its sparkling script For a charm to still her pesky heart A spectrum of sorrow stains her lips Like freshly melted gems The night licks each rainbow drop Its soft breath strokes her cheek Sing me, oh, sing me the moon-silvered song She sings it, but in colors
* * *
Come away, come away, you said, To my land of desires and diamond dew How we soared the plum-hued skies Teacup chariot harnessed to thunderheads Sipping cordials on a crescent moon Trysting with brazen, frost-blossomed winds How you, so shy, so sweet, slipped me A lambent star on a string And taught me to angle for whispers And wonders And well-ripened secrets How you waited until I slept, Drunk on distilled moon wine, To turn my chest's tarnished key And lay bare my heart vault Gone, the butterflies bottle blue and bright Gone, the violet strands of verdant dreams Gone, gone, gone, my wings unseen With them, my sovereignty And now you, too, have fled You sky-pirate, you rogue Leaving only A meager payment How cunning your trap! This mere lump of moldering flesh Pounds out a warm, bloody beat Behind my breastbone So withered, wistful, weak Yet forcing me always To feel
Shveta Thakrar is a writer of South Asian-flavored fantasy, social justice activist, and part-time nagini. She draws on her heritage, her experience growing up with two cultures, and her love of myth to spin stories about spider silk and shadows, magic and marauders, and courageous girls illuminated by dancing rainbow flames. Her most recent publications can be found in The Toast, Faerie Magazine, Strange Horizons, Interfictions Online, and Uncanny magazine. When not hard at work stringing prose into delicate chains suitable for wearing out, Shveta makes things out of glitter and paper and felt, devours books, daydreams, bakes sweet treats, travels, and occasionally even practices her harp.
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