Hands-are-Shelves ( vii )

The elbow balances itself
against the tide of time
Rising into orange mist,
the upturned mouth of Ganges

The bone cracked first
in the occurrence of hope
The strongest are often the weakest
under the lipid taste of love
As it walks the skin, its overbearing moisture
A figurine of sand
Devoid of all structure, shifting scales
Landscapes of hypnotic densities
Hot spring and nights of mating palm trees

I am a traveler
inside the body of hope,
My oars, ladles of dust
We do not know
We do not understand
the currents anymore
The currents are banshees of undue promises
They have snatched an entire ecosystem from my womb
and left my tongue twisted on a solitary tree
overlooking the sky
of a million falling swans

I wake up
to skinned hot nights
with navy blue cheeks
under a navy blue moon
a drifting shore caught in fishnet eyes
Like a moth after death
Questioning the purpose of all light?

My arms are rabid red wolves
descending atmosphere
As gravity eats the sky
I am awake, awaiting
my answers
with a basket of indigo bones howling under shaved moonlight

Image and Poem © Aakriti Kuntal

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