Onsra
When they burn me by the river, my pyre
ignites
with smoke that rises thick and not sandalwood sweet.
A stench grapples the air, reeking of desire
like overripe fruit splitting under its own weight.
The smoke stays warm, metallic,
the kind that stings the eyes
before it reaches the lungs.
It billows strong, the foul perfume of what
we never had,
strong enough to choke the priests
and scatter the crow mid-caw.
Clouds gather, heavy with mercy,
and rain lashes down,
mingling my essence with the wind.
It seeks you out
and trickles into places it was denied.
The first drop falls right by your left eye,
where lips longed to linger
all my futile life.
My final kiss, cool and unrefused,
seeping through your skin
as I never could.
(Author’s note: Onsra takes its title from a word I encountered meaning to love for the last time with the painful awareness that it cannot last. In the poem, I use cremation, scent, and rain to explore how unfulfilled love persists not as possession, but as trace—something that disperses, seeps, and lingers beyond choice)
About the Author
