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Mehrish, Divya, Pantoum to my Miscarried Body; Ghazal to the Moon; Ghazal to Skeleton

MEHRISH, DIVYA

Divya Mehrish
Age: 17, Grade: 12

School Name: Spence School, New York, NY
Educator: Sara Beasley

Category: Poetry

Pantoum to my Miscarried Body; Ghazal to the Moon; Ghazal to Skeleton

Pantoum to my Miscarried Body

Bones blooming like lichen,
I dig for salvation in paper.
My pen is running out of ink—
I suppose God doesn’t want to save me.

I dig for salvation in paper—
With tissues, I rub veins out of eyes.
I suppose God doesn’t want to save me.
My dreams echo with the juxtaposition of red and white.

With tissues, I rub veins out of porcelain—
Matted blood clings to the sides of the bowl, refusing to drown.
My dreams echo with the juxtaposition of red and white.
I can’t bear to start bleeding again.

Clinging to my insides, I refuse to drown
in the failure of peeling uterus.
I can’t bear to start bleeding again—
I will try to mother my body.

In the failure of peeling uterus,
Bones are blooming like lichen, again
I will try to mother my body
before my pen runs out of ink.

Ghazal to the Moon

The waning gibbous reminds me of canned shards of tangerine, coated in sickly sweet. 
Gazing into pockmarks, I furrow the fever on my brow. I lap at Tylenol, coated in sickly sweet.

The sky wraps itself around the light, warped by the moisture of lust. Between the tight fingers
of stars, the scarred orb bulges like a sore eye, oozing thick pus, creamy and sweet.

Dripping from the rays of the sun like a slug, it’s waxing. But it doesn’t have 
those ever-crying gibbous eyes of ours, drowning in salty-sweet.

We call it New. So that we, too, can be born again. We are babies who would rather grip
canes than rattles, children who would rather rot our gums than save our teeth, obsessed with sweet.

An eyeless Cheshire smile curling along the sides the murky dome, crescent lips chapped.
Your smile is not clean and white and brooding, but coated in sickly sweet.

Ghazal to Skeleton

The cold in this room seeps into my bones,
slithering up the stairs like the black cat, hunting fish bones.

The air around me is thick with tired rain
oozing into the limestone walls, a mausoleum of bones.

The fog flutters through maple, grey into green.
Leaning back, I sink into wood—oak into bones.

Before I died last spring, I braided my arms into my name:
tied with a ribbon, I rocked myself to sleep—bone thudding against bone.

In the letter, I demanded that my mother bury me in my baptismal gown—
in the ground, we all melt—silk into soil, earth into bones.