love is a dead body, waterlogged and
sweet, the mistranslation of ancestry.
my grandfather’s hands mix pale rice
for hunger-pang wolves, and the sun’s
opened yolk is liquid light in the sky. he
does not recognize me when i blink.
substance does not pass my teeth. i
shake, hollow, hands lepidoptera pinned
to a wall. my love is a misappropriation
of grief, swallowed to say: i want to carry
this. i want to wear this in my body. when
i’m gone, will it make you real, finding
your name carved into still-slick riverstone?
By Kavi Kshiraj
Kavi Kshiraj is a queer, Indo-American poet found in New Jersey. They spend time on hobbies such as writing, mythology, and their various identity crises. tumblr: @kavikshiraj ; twitter/instagram: @klytaimestra