Manjula Martin

i.

the pearls come from living coral,
rosy, tubular. he lets me touch the
old ones, compares a tattoo —
shipwreck in glorier days, tilt a
forearm just right and peek between
canyon-tall corridors. snatch a
panorama, doorbell, audience.

he lets me touch it, gives a
singular pink - like, as though
anyone’s ever given me a gift of
this intensity, like it’s not gonna
drown me or something.

i take it, roll the pearl
across my clean throat, float,



ii.

we find spaces, cityscapes, strange
settlements of abandoned mid-
century orbs. green segments over
wood / castles / who slept here.
like this:

[a drawing of box cubby holes and a
caption: wood overgrown] (on the
boys’ side all metal,
architecture split level.)

after some time in the city, we
nuzzle me in a corner on a chair,
my sister - swimming - think it’s
normal-cute, we are let alone we go
up stairs.




iii.

sound of men talking sound of
machine over. underneath by sound
of walking steps of squawking men
birds.

sound of grass below hair sound of
water jet leaves/the wind on the
ground –

running along the sound of water
sound of
sun my legs sun refracting water
sound of water sound of light
energy escapes from .
before, that was youth. now, maybe

— maybe i’m losing — the sound of
leaves tumbling. down concrete or
cars being quieter than

that sound of warm sweater. bells
far away. cement more echoey than
that

sound of
sounds, seems to be better today.
sound of routine, wheels, chopper,
fades.

the lawnmower passes by like a
freeway, a dry October leaf
attaches itself to someone’s ankle,

a bell rings


Manjula Martin is currently working on a site-specific theatrical reenactment of the 1946 Oakland General Strike, http://oakland1946.blogspot.com, and a chapbook in memory of the Polaroid photograph. Her kitchen is pink and her bicycle is in it.