I see a picture 
Pink Kolhapuri sandals        curved bodies with metallic pink
stones   Dome    tinted umbrella       pink lampshade

My head rotates   eyes devolve   sugarcane juice, its syrupy goodness 
in my airy cell bags       as we chase the thela

        Parrot green gowns hang above
 Curry in a bluish sun bowl      Tall brine structures with bark
       bodies and strengthened curves
       I climb one           opera star, singing 
to the fluttering flesh of afternoon air

The grass below is a warm lit cavern      Yellowish green soaps
Tulips staring at my face 
           Their finicky bodies gracefully parting
against adrift pollen webs

Everything     swimming    Black fishes  pointed noses
Hoses flooding      Trapeze of pink blur     Afternoon red
candy floss     Stretching and departing 
Tension in my salted fingers 

Absoluteness of fading 
orbits the surface of memories 

As they converge again    into a ladder and climb down my neck
Points of poignancy    stranded pins

My stomach     a groaning valley
thirsty    clawing    Hopping from one deceased plane to another

My body    a blue absorbent     strangulating the curtain song
Bony air   Fibroid dust pyramids   my arms and knees   
bunched into a sack

Grains of calcified grief     
Stung chest

hands rummaging     Helplessness 

An entire existence curled into a comma     Nothing proceeds

         Incarcerated homes    Felt and murdered
Dying    unreeling      lost behind wrappers 
Hurting like a windpipe    timeless longing

Everything in these arms is molten

Poem © Aakriti Kuntal


4 thoughts on “This-Poem-is-molten

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