(in a city that screams)
bed-sheets rumpled and skin on tender fire,
from the wooden window frames
that rustle with music of heartbreak,
from the mosque behind the trees,
the television rumbling with terror,
the language steeped in serrated earth—
fertile, ragged, microcosm of life/
the train in the celestial ceiling, puffing white
clouds of longing, waiting on her
brown skin that will wash off to a red gouache,
and, as the light shifts, will become a lilac sea
glistening like a night sky at war.
(in a still that pains)
dark girl is running through the mustard field,
knowing her ocean deep call will become a smoke signal
when the cold comes /
the city lights float to these edges, laden with holy music—
love letters to gods in the same tongue
in which she can only read silence/
in the still of her kitchen, her shipwrecked vessel
knew of the unrelenting gravity sunk into its bones
when it devoured the olden light of the big things in the sky/
leaves under the peepal tree/leaves her people somewhere
between the dirt and her knees/the crop is dried/
oh god, what a time to burn.
( —a barrel, a tunnel, a heart)
being easy is so unbelievably spiritual,
and there aren’t enough hymns about it;
sing – guttural, choral, devout—
for her— the epicentre of everything
that writhes to lick the sky clean/the blood
hymns about a red she has become
and how the trees move for her
when the wind dies down and there’s
no sun to turn to,
hymns about staying alive.
By Anushka Roy
Any facts, views or opinions are not intended to malign, criticise and/or disrespect any religion, group, club, organisation, company, or individual.
This piece published on this website is solely representative of the author. Neither the editorial staff nor the organisation (Political Pandora) are responsible for the content.
While we strive to present only reliable and accurate information, should you believe that any information present is incorrect or needs to be edited, please feel free to contact us.