Sharanya Manivannan" />
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Literature, PoetryJune 10, 2014

Poem for Clothes Left in Another Country

 

Sometimes you come back to me, invoked by accident

        – a similar pigment, something almost kindred
        in the way you absorbed the light – and I am
  seduced, unstitched with the thought of you.

I come undone like a cascade of beads from the

broken filament of my memory, seeing myself

 

as if in a mirror or a photograph: your color, your

cut, your grace on my body, the witchery I

       bought you for. Here a chemise’s boatlike sweep

on the clavicle, here a plunge deep as risk, here a

gossamer blush, like a remembered kiss. Garland of feathers

   the color of my birthstone. Shawls gathered coyly,

shrugged off in cunning. Trinkets twinkling with suggestion.

 Lace and satin, stepped into, steeped in anticipation.

Things I bought as much for the undressing as for the dress.

      Vine of bells for the wrist, twins of the same
 for the ankles, so a lover might learn the sound of

a bed being left. Batik. Those leopard print boots

  ribboned up the thigh, loved once
              and boxed ever since.

 

How delicate, the weave of incident and accouterment.

             Gypsy silver. The bias cut in bottle
  green, crown of flowers, kalamkari acquired in the sickness
  of another nostalgia. Skirt, sunlit as Pondicherry ochre.

Guile of womanly sway in nonchalant denim. Jacquard

     velvet bought when too young to wear it.

Mandarin collar. Basque translucent as rose quartz.

         What I wore that night, what I would
  wear if only   – if only –    I had it tonight.

Drape of poncho or pashmina, for a sagacious guise.

Crepe crinkling like a laugh. Power and play

     of gentleman’s fedora. Cowgirl’s hat.

The simplicity of a tight black thing, amiable

                        with everything.

Embroidery. Mirrorwork. Say it slowly – suede.

 

Oh these splendorous

 things fit for a queen – if only they weren’t
                  in quarantine.

 

Let me have them back for a day,

            if not for tonight. How
  I’d set this town on fire:

the damage of desire, kindled with

     couture and thrift shop glee,

tinder of greed and regret,

struck alight with the

heartbreak of my highest heels.

~ Sharanya Manivannan

 

Sharanya Manivannan was born in Madras, India in 1985, and grew up in Sri Lanka and Malaysia. She represented Malaysia at Poetry Parnassus in 2012, and was a spotlight writer in The Missing Slate’s seventh issue.

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issue 7MalaysiapoetryPoetry World CupSharanya Manivannan

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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