Oh, the moon, the moon
and the ache
{Like a sweetened jelly upon my lips}

I pack thunder into a sack
and beat it on my skin
My body, Coarse grains and wheat yarn
Tires slope on this bridge neck
Spokes in shoulders and oval spine

I carry the shutter of the shedding skies
in cotton sacks
inside my breasts
Each a cut moon
{their mouths bottled}
I tend to them
Like a mother to her wildernesses
I cup them,
{trepidation, tulsi, milk, waters}
I cup them
flavor them with ointments
{Fahrenheit and figures,
sand, heat, and curvatures }

They shift in my bosom
Along the tides of see-saw days
They make muffled noises
{Cockroach whispers
Cocoons on plastic twigs}
Their aroma like baking soda in my house

Now I must
Just pause and sink
(Pause and sink)
I am a pollen and an anther
of deflated moon stems
A fat ripped bag
of too many tender lives
Each slowly dying
in my clavicles
I am a lesion
Sliced and sautéed
Now I shall lift these fingers and drill them into my slacking throat
Swaddle and choke
These little shapes
Of women
Who I like to kill
Every-other-night

© Aakriti Kuntal

Picture : Aakriti Kuntal

 

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7 thoughts on “Many Lives

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