Kashi Bakshani

in my free time i haunt the hurricane house

the cymbal crash of rain holds firm till the a.m.—warm-lit walls sing as

thunder strips them of saturation—downpour pools to gutters of

sepia tile—do wet socks bother you?

the power’s gone out—along with the sun chased in fear by the tempest’s

guffaw—look this is how to make light dad indicates to a potato

chock full of serpentine metals, since wax is drying low

(go, go look out the front door where the hurricane wails


in the ivory tub, mom’s hands kiss my head—eucalyptus shampoo

suds and she tells me so sweet: the storm is inside already, no need

for her to knock

i watch the firmament form from the living room sofa—damp cushions

perpetually cool in the hurricane house—warping book sticks my palm

with weeping ink—what was the title?

there on the wall contorted by waist-level water, is that a photograph or a

painting? regardless it will disintegrate—remember

the house is sinking

soaked blaze drips to decay—hard maple water-weakened to soft wood

—for always i cycle in the hurricane home—do you ever remember

having dry socks?

Kashi Bakshani is a queer, South Asian poet from New York City. She is an undergraduate university student pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts in spatial experience design at FIT. Her work explores multidisciplinary intersections of the arts and sciences. Her writing has been published to Columbia University’s State of the Planet and W27 Newspaper.