Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










UNTITLED by Leanne Dunic

Your art and mine both have ghosts.

Are we not present enough?

We haven’t seen each other for over a year,
it’s been five minutes, and look at our conversation.

 

This is the first time I’ve come to the rooftop.
With the air quality warnings
I’ve stayed inside
to be safe.

 
 
 

I had a show in Detroit.
My host said, This fence encloses the property –
It’s not like someone can just hop in from the street.
And I thought
I want so much to be surprised
if you have the audacity to break in
and by chance we meet
I want to make it worth your time.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I’ve been watching these workers daily.
Look at all of them loading into the back of that truck.
I hope they have a good place to rest.

 

Wish I were dealing with the daily grind
of little obstacles and achievements. I tell myself
that monotony appeals because I have the luxury to think
about my existence and purpose leading to a sort of
ambivalence.

 

My friends say
You have it all
I wish I was you.

 
They’re clearly not your friends.

 

You understand

the emptiness.

 

I do get everything I want.

 

I know what I want.
Not sure that I always get it.

What would we do if we had it all?

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Last night, I had an anxiety attack
and in the middle of it, I found out I got
representation with my first choice gallery
and I didn’t care.

We need to be watchful when these feelings
hit.

Maybe it’s because we know nothing lasts.

Look at all those window
lights around us.

Millions within these buildings, each burrowed
in our dens. Different classes, dialects, desires.
All hungry.

The ceiling fans, the dining
tables…make me feel cold.

This is the last time we’ll see this view.

My heart is a series of rotating vacancies.
 

We were in Split.
Morning light streamed
through the window
he was asleep in my arms
and still
I was empty.

Every November
I get a cut on this knuckle
and it takes weeks to heal.
 

Alone, I went on a boat tour
through thousand year old caves.
There, everything caught up with me.

I couldn’t stop crying.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

I was not empty
when I lived alone on a small island
creating
going to bed at 9PM to wake
at dawn.

I was not empty at my friend’s wedding.

 
 
 

There’s a bird I hear all the time
sounds like it’s winding up. There’s a crescendo
then it repeats.
I’m trying to figure out what it’s called.

Is it black with red eyes?

Haven’t seen it, only heard it.
Sounds like it’s having an orgasm.

Never thought that before
but now that’s all I’ll hear.
Thanks.

We are two balloons
on top of the city
ready to float into
the atmosphere.

 
 
 
 

Embrace the void.

Make it a muse.

 

Wholeness is overrated.