Joanna

By: Tushar Jain

Here's to
the beauty of
silent things,
elbows turning
into seasons
into waist
that stretch long hours
into thighs
and moonbeam skin
and gold hair tangled
up in sun,
and eyes that
linger in you
long after the rest
of her has left

Joanna, you
are a rage of flowers
soaked in July, a rush
I could hold close in palms
until time razes reason
from the sky, and colour
edges to corners
where shadows
crawl to die