two poems

by Sebastian Subir

letter to my twenty-three-year-old self

after T.S. Eliot

to be rooted, to be seen as necessary

to the unfolding: his loft in queens

where you kissed his spine, subway track

ambered under lavender mist. nine

years ahead, his wrinkles, shadow

you filled with egyptian dreams.

he gave you mono, unread texts,

pear’s breath behind saran wrap.

in the pull of it—love was a chore.

not your father, or fucking

your way to nirvana, the corpse

you planted last year in your garden . . .

your pulse beats, refuses to harden,

why did he mean so much to us?

my cat on the moon

he needles upward,

sticks to our couch.

zephyrs catch whiskers,

ready him for the flight.

dusk tickles his mane,

shadow falls on stairs,

his cancer awaits, gnawing

off the bits of time—

like that hill on the moon

where I last saw you,

where we inhaled

the prickling pine—

stars leave tumors

in the blanket-sky. 

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Sebastian Subir is a writer based in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area. His work has appeared in River Heron Review and The Indianapolis Review.