The eye absorbs, 
pieces of light, fragments, 
A distilled white dreams in the midday 
glowing feverishly against the retina

I took the sun home.
The tip of my finger. Scarlet. Wide red onions.
Slit like cascaded throats.
There is a castle in making. 
         A castle of dried blood.

I placed it on the windowsill.
What is a light within margins? Bound, seized, 
an uncontrollable center 
frantically swirling in breath

The pupil moves like a tunnel
suffocating its own darkness
staring at the creases of orange 
that demarcate the source of all life

The windowsill is a blushing orange now.
Warm in the aftermath of-

      I watched it       stagnate           on my window.
And explode. 

       A star is not the only thing that consumes itself.

Image and Poem © Aakriti Kuntal 13-07-2017
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2 thoughts on “At the windowsill

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