Her Tongue Thinks of Plagiarizing Itself

She keeps me tightly curled between her teeth

and the roof of her mouth. Neatly folded in two.

I am wet as birth, can’t really avoid sprouting forth

for all that survives without signals, street signs

and Shakespearean sonnets.  I am a bitch who lashes out

at those in keep, unless girdled, saddled, corseted with

care and yen.  This, she does provide me with. Love

she doesn’t. For all of my cheek, spunk or bitchery,

I cannot steal words that remain unsaid.

This is indeed a convoluted way of saying,

I am tired of trying to initialize myself on her lips

without much success. Although I creep out during

those spells when she parts them for a drink or lettuce

leaf, I wouldn’t mind tasting something else.

 I know she’ll ignore me, the same way

 she looks away from the blood on her

 fingernails. But I am her most trusted

girlfriend. On the night, when I will finally

learn to untie myself without aid,

I will steal from her what has been mine

 from the days  of being unnamed, unwritten,

unread. She and I will walk towards the hilly bend,

where I will coerce her to tear apart our names

and bend a little over the edge.

_______________

Nandini Dhar’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Muse India, Kritya, Mascara Literary Review, Off the Coast, Pratilipi, tinfoildresses, First Literary Review, Hawaii Review, Prick of the Spindle, Penwood Review, Poetry Quarterly, Stonetelling, Cabinet Des Fees and Asia Writes. A Pushcart nominee, Nandini grew up in Kolkata, India, and received an M.A. in Comparative Literature from Jadavpur University, Calcutta and another M.A. in Comparative Literature from the University of Oregon. Currently, she is a Ph.D. Candidate in Comparative Literature at University of Texas at Austin.