We are the daughters
of men who warned us about the news
and the missing girls on the milk carton
and the sharp edge of the world.
They begged us to be careful. To be safe.
Then told our brothers to go out and play.
—  Pocket-Sized Feminism by Blythe Baird

Arctic against my quavering palms
This darkened timber with exquisite engraving
Obviously so, constructed alongside love
Intending to occupy happiness
Generous enough to entertain trinkets
Postcards from Eryn, of which I collect many
A pocket book of Frost poems or the kind of beautiful minerals
That you might discover on a walk
Along an empty beach in the misty rain
Premature pinecones, lichen sheathed tree bark
Tattered scraps of whimsy fortunes
From cookies I’ve broken, though seldom consumed
Torn ticket stubs from films I’ve studied alone
On the nights my emotions were erupting
Cold desert air, windows falling, music sonorous
On empty highways my tires wander until I—
All of this chattel I would lay in a box for safekeeping
To oblige my heart, to revive my memories
This box, perfectly rounded on the top edges
Which smells strangely of cedar and something I can’t quite name
Red felt lining the inside, dust forming a moat around its’ content
Holds just one item a fraction of its’ caliber
A vestige that indentation does not let me forget


paper boat

The gathered up sky,
in his velvet eyes,
clear blue
of incoming rain,
filled to the brim,
in glass jars;

Only love
is all gray
on days like this ,
and fluttery;

And my words stay,
bunched up
like copper coins,
at the base
of a wishing-well,
from pockets
that always turn empty;

Only love
is all gray
on days like this.

© SoulReserve 2016

I write only
so that my words can go
and get lost in your streets

or in some summers,
like those forgotten coins -
can be found in your back pocket.

—  Gurpreet Sachdev | My Words |  Delhi; Aug.05.2015