Amish Trivedi: From 'FuturePanic': 'What We Remembered Before'

What We Remembered Before


A face climbing

atop an old       

starter motor,    

buried down

and spit-taken

ahead of slender


white ether gloves and

parade sheets pulled

over and beginning to

absorb the leaded

ground. Given way

again to


another incendiary thin

sprawl but never


                                    again, a word

                                    that means a

                                    finger tracing the


paths along the arch

of skin near any

finger other than your


own: a set                of known

                                    hands soldered together

                                    that even heated will


                                    begin to crown.


Fixtures that break against the ice: moon

light parches a dry throat to

choke and stall out. In way before ash,

we heard vibrations of soil we reached

into, a shaded space beyond your

mouth that gives growth to others.


As a memory

just as it was done before

clearings came. Another sensation that


comes in when otherness vacates. A descent

and catching the hands in an escape

pose, bringing brickarms

to spin into another form so

brilliant the eyes retract into

their holster. Rearranged


to form new compounds

built on the generations

of freedom we

rebelled from,


the glass lip tasted


but prevented from

blistering under a

skin we've already

known. The next


year is always easier

than this one but I


                        realize I'm expected

                        to speak in projections


that never seem

to clear the teeth




This sequestration, our lungs alighting in

series to develop

a texture its own,

a stigma we designed on time divided. Out pasture

ignition point, the right mixture but rich

with air or ventilated improperly. The

gaze we have again. In


the pressured moments beyond

this one, we'll seek


against and filtrate our

devoured like a steadied destruction

we cannot believe, alleviated

before us. In the summer the


ships go through

the bridge and


we hear a cantilever of

swallowed dusk


reintroduce it to a

native, painted earth. We


                                    were what we ought to

                                    have been all a-

                                    long, not just a


reminder of the room

before the


reverberation. This tipped

another time


without being heard,

satisfied to

fear. Where we were


is against a wall too

tall to hold


us backwards in an


ocean. A dream too

buried by dirt

to carry another

feeling alongside

it. Split along a

vein, adequate again, I

know. This or


any justification to

breathe alone in your

reference besides

the terror that


seethes through

an absent language. An

                                    absence sustained through

                                    notion, anything matter lacks

                                    it collects as prey, a retraction.


If anything that is unseen shows

the depth of another shift,


we'll realign ourselves to be

any different kind of

place which cannot remain


whenever an unheard system tenses and

recovers. Our tract, re-purposed to


                                                begin in seas of

                                                matter— axon, a


being. Let the litmus be our light

ahead. Your back arcing there

somewhere, a little exposed but


I cover my eyes to

unsee you and cover my arms so that I

may undeceive. Say the same thing


you always say to everyone else but say

it to the gathered room. In


memory, speech

begins as a seed


piercing. The things we are begin in

a spark from

a hand and out again, covered,

mistaken and divulged as



Weaned hour, deplored moment on

the way to another envelopment. Bray

above a roar


                        to sound inflexible, really,

                        and putting recognition

                        on. Regain


a swollen block where

we will to unknow,

move about the surrounding

spaces. A light out on


                                    a stair

                                    well to

                                    ascertain we


begin again, a glow too

welcoming to speak

through. Though the air

seems to push us, it's

a retribution from sin. After


worry resolves, it

plays, ringing in and over

where everything that

can grow

does not. If


our floods are the same, I hope

what we know is masked by

shame and brings sense back

to the land we settled.


[NOTE.  Amish Trivedi has for some time been a close associate at Poems and Poetics, some of his earlier work having appeared in the postings of February 25, 2011 and October 7, 2012.  In the present offering he steps forward as a poet working at full capacity, to create, like the best of us, a poetry that tests his & our furthest capabilities & fears.  I wait to see what follows with great anticipation.  (J.R.)]