Smitha Sehgal
MOUTH PART
faint light folded in perplexity,
the art of sinking chelicerae,
cross diagonal web,
a voice that drops like a swamp
before the night washes in,
vowels fizzling out into the hollow
of the sea, claiming lower lips,
fangs of venom,
limbs paralyzed in the sugar garden
where you pre-digest me
liquified on the first poem
about migrants and flamingoes.