Hands-are-Shelves ( v )

What is the reckoning of a misplaced arm
as the wrist
cuts through the atmosphere
Twice in each halved circle

Every harvest the body must disintegrate
Petunias in a fire sky
Boxes of red shaved skin, skin after skin, mind after mind,
body unto matter, dead wolves, dead fish, dead clouds

I pick the remnants, membrane dispersed in membrane
Roaming unabashedly on granite patches
hopping on a single leg, a toothpick scratching square to square
Perimeter of this redder enclave

Death came first as five thousand chopped winter heads
breaking the dam of that certain summer
into tiny coagulated beings of redness
A streaming face, sunrise into sunset, over and over and over

A nail on the forehead, iron fists
It came as containers of cold splashing blood
wearing mammal tongue
A sundial face of indigenous love
What is it that love cannot hold, cannot take, cannot kill
once sworn? Love even swallows itself.

It came
under the quietness of open skin, seepage,
a clock of dusty honeybees
Now swarming the roundness of my plump thigh
Lather of shimmery nectar
Infestation, murder, love

I sit outside patient time, breaking patient knuckles,
waving patient finger pens around impatient boundaries
Endlessly drawing on my own wreckage, life’s very own patient
Is there anything here that doesn’t hurt?

Image and Poem © Aakriti Kuntal

3 thoughts on “The-First-Face-is-a-Valentine-Red

  1. Aakriti you’re one of my fav writer/blogger/instgrammer. I know I’m not regular thesedays. But I love your writing. The way you portray it feels like a dream every time. And I also learn so much from your poetry. Hats off to you and your beautiful poetry Keep rocking.. 👍


  2. The last paragraph is epic beauty. Indigenous love which swallows itself and emanates from the death. Beautiful imagery. Thanks for sharing 🙂


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