From Juhi Masi, over in Los Angeles.

Why do memories linger
like shadows, or a fog, rather?
Thick and opaque
and soft to the touch
but quickly becoming
wisps of air when I try
to hold them?

They're almost invisible, you know.

Almost without texture,
but still somehow abrasive.
And always dense. Always
around. Never lifting or fading to let the light in.

They linger like you do,
in the creases of my couch,
or in the folds of my sheets.

You linger still in the warmth
of the dying fire
and in my cold fingers
wrapped around a cup of coffee.

Why, tell me, do you linger?

When you know I cannot live
on memories alone.

I've been stuck at home for the past four days because I have the flu. Or rather, the flu has me. I'll spare you the gory details of survival, but I have acquainted myself very well with all the walls in my house. So I wrote a poem to commemorate this occasion. I call it Cabin Fever.

Cabin Fever

I spend my days
smoothing out wrinkles
from the creases in my sofa
or tightening the corners of my bed sheets
when all I really want
is a wooden desk with drawers
that can hold my life in them.

I can't do this on my academic blog, but this one belongs to me. Have a look.

and sitting by the edge of the cliff
where the waves lapped against the shore
she turned to the rising sun bathing the sky
in glows of pink, breathing in the world with the ocean;
and then she leaned over and whispered
"let's make music together"

One of the earliest pieces of advice I had received regarding writing was to pick up a rock or a pebble, imagine the life it would have had and write down its story. I'm really not a romantic writer, so I don't much look for meaning in rocks and pebbles, but when the objective is to write one poem everyday, a writing exercise is a good way to make myself think.