Sanjeev Sethi’s most recent collection of poetry is This Summer and That Summer (Bloomsbury, 2015). He has published two other volumes. His poems are in venues around the world: Off the Coast, Literary Orphans, The Five-Two, W.I.S.H. Press, Easy Street, Mad Swirl, The Blue Mountain Review, Postcolonial Text, The Provo Canyon Review, Dime Show Review, Squawk Back, Yellow Chair Review, Right Hand Pointing, Red Wolf Journal, The Aerogram, Chronogram, First Literary Review-East, Elsieisy, Your One Phone Call, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Ofi Press Magazine,Lunaris Review, Expound Magazine, Otoliths, and elsewhere. He lives in Mumbai, India.

BUGLE

Fanfare with which you hijacked my heart

makes me miss a beat, my awkwardness

still answers in futescent strokes. Casuist

can’t superintend fusillade of those feelings.

My body was feckless, forwardly meshed.

It molded me to lie, rendered me feeling

small. I hated its hunger. You never had

nerve to introduce me to your innards.

That page is empty like time with you.

Bleakness of braiding charred desire.. 

Future tripping: resentiments mustn’t 

rot lanes to another love

PREPARATION

No need to own up to my feelings.

There are other summaries. This

is both awkwardness of art and

its allure. Universe is on the beam,

my world can turn a summerset.

That is it about not uncovering,

and cringing at possibilities of

mishaps. Gaucherie of limelight?

Stubs legitimizing Paul Prys

to lick any which way on

the lollipop of my longings.

RICOCHET

Unlike broken goods broken people need pampering.

For one, they believe they have been shortchanged.

In this warren I endearingly call home, doors away

from mine a fellow as old as me said so long.

Following noon cops found him on the davenport.

His act has me unaffected. Am I doing this number as

his conte mirrors mine? Well, almost. I’m alive.

STILLICIDE

Verboten desires, buried feelings marinate 

in the minds wok to erupt with unexpected 

vigor at the opportune moment. 

The body creaks for your company. 

Its ululations force me to your fence. 

I find you fixed with paginations of another print run. 

Secrets are like words, some we will never know.

But I disremember your dualities. That is my need. 

To be compos mentis I require credendum. 

It is gauche to quarrel with one’s quintessence.

THERAPY

Mine is solitariness. Yours is fanning 

a weighty contributor to your kitty.

The line of demarcation is delineated.

There is no confrontation. Alternate

day our telecon lasts for ten minutes.

Everything I say is right as rain. I only 

hear *bilkul theek. I recommend it.

*Absolutely right

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