Amit Majmudar

Aching for Acre, in a sacred ague, They’re setting out. They wear only their nightgowns, These ageless androgynes, these little angels Who raise their wooden swords and hymns of glass. They’re saying how the journey there will be A stroll between aquariums reviewing Divisions of moray and . . . . Continue Reading »

After I had burned alive a spell, spellbound by the burning that bound me, I saw an Ice Cross rising down to me through sea- blue sky. This Ice Cross was the eye’s cross, submerged for years in the eye’s aqueous humor, an iceberg crux cracked off the Pole Star and splashed deep”all . . . . Continue Reading »

Lord, late though I am, slide the lathe And shape, shave me. Shear me wraith- Slim, slave-thin; flay the skin in moth- Wings off my soul’s loathed sheath. Wrath- Ripe as I am, pluck me, pulp me. Filth That I am, bathe me. Faith, Be water; Father, help me drown. I cannot breathe until you . . . . Continue Reading »

Heavy water, holy water, we are weighed on By your waterweight, you proton- Poisoned fission vintage we dare not sip. A drip weighs torrents on the tongue and lip. Tritium, trinity water, three-in-one God’s Sweat condensed on a fuel rod’s throb, Heavy as falling heavens, you weigh . . . . Continue Reading »

Apache rotors, envying windmills no more, Thresh the air wheat-gold. On lonely state routes We can witness them whisper the harvest. They idle gently, no intention to ascend. A fine, dry chaff gilds the passing windshield. Where are the wars that whet these blades? Far off, Far off and not . . . . Continue Reading »

The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and ­blossom. Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy .”The Book of Isaiah A desert needs only an orphan’s portion of rain on seeds deep and dormant For acres of . . . . Continue Reading »

Grace bathes us Inside and out, most of it passing right through, Our neuron mesh not fine enough to stop it Much less deflect its quantum beeline through space. We are sieves with holes the size of eyes, Splayed fingers trying to lift a beach. The pulse Is our built-in Geiger counter and the best . . . . Continue Reading »

Jerusalem, fulcrum of our uplift, Is not this rough plank the Cross, laid aslant Golgotha, The lever with which the philosophers boasted They could move the world? — Amit Majmudar Photo by Stefie Zawa on Unsplash. Image . . . . Continue Reading »

Where Equator and Prime Meridian cross is the one True Cross, the rood’s wood warped and tacked pole to pole. Constantine’s mother wrapped in sackcloth a splinter of it, Jerusalem souvenir. His fingertips tickle where they meet in the skies over Fiji. A nail pegs foot, foot, and Ross ice shelf, . . . . Continue Reading »