A Year In My Throat Poem by Kumar Sen

This month arrives in skeletal hands,
clattering over the tiles of my chest.
January's frost bites a hole through yesterday,
February drips like spilled mercury,
March hums beneath the tongue like a trapped bird.

I carve days into the walls of my throat,
watching April's light fracture into shards
that stick to my skin and refuse to leave.
May blooms sideways, a wild tooth in the garden,
June dissolves in coffee rings on my notebook.

Even the calendar laughs—
its pages are ash, its numbers bite.
By December, I will hold twelve ghosts
like coins in a fist,
each one screaming, Remember me.