Ramya Mudumba

“Basket of Figs”

Bring me your pain, love. Spread
it out like fine rugs, silk sashes,
warm eggs, cinnamon
and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me

the detail, the intricate embroidery
on the collar, tiny shell buttons,
the hem stitched the way you were taught,
pricking just a thread, almost invisible.

Unclasp it like jewels, the gold
still hot from your body. Empty
your basket of figs. Spill your wine.

That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it,
cradling it on my tongue like the slick
seed of pomegranate. I would lift it

tenderly, as a great animal might
carry a small one in the private
cave of the mouth.

Ellen Bass, Mules of Love (BOA Editions Ltd.; 1st edition (April 1, 2002)”
― Ellen Bass, Mules of Love

“blinded visionary that locks the moon in place;
I am the simple sieve that drinks the universe.”
― Ruth Stone, In the Next Galaxy

“someone I could hold up to my ear and hear the ocean, something I could say my name into, and have it returned in the inky waves.”
― Ada Limon, Bright Dead Things: Poems

“WHAT IS A POEM?

Such slight changes in air pressure,
Tongue and palate,
And the difference in teeth.
Transparent words.

Why do I want to say ochre,
Or what is green-yellow?
The sisters of those leaves on the ground
Still lisp on the branches.
Why do I want to imitate them?

Having come this far
With a handful of alphabet,
I am forced,
With these few blocks,
To invent the universe.”
― Ruth Stone, The Essential Ruth Stone