a poem by Tanya Muzumdar

Tanya Muzumdar

Tanya Muzumdar

Tanya Muzumdar is an MFA candidate at Pacific University. Her poetry has recently appeared in Prairie Schooner, Nashville Review, THRUSH Poetry Journal, Gigantic Sequins, Crab Creek Review, and Salamander, among others, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthologies. She lives in northern Michigan, where she works as an editor and travel writer.


Sad at the end, when there's no longer 
       a ledge to lord on. Stage

love. We sing & free blushed flesh
       from its cage. Breast blur, hip circles.

Clapping wanes to hand-holding
       after one encore

in the night. The crew breaks down the scaffold
       & pulls up the floor. Unplugged cords 

the world over. Someone unscrews the stars
       & says to poke leaks in the sun.

I hear a mountain crumple.
       Someone collapses a white umbrella,

squeezing the waist of a wedding
       gown never worn. I know a band

breaks up. I know a haystack
       in the wind pleads for its body back.