Distance
Sneha Subramanian Kanta


i.

there is a sound in decaying things
the asparagus and dried cream growing in the refrigerator
occupying too much space, like unwanted citizens in a country that has closed its borders.
there are white plastic bags for ten pence from the supermarket—
everything that is purchased comes with a claim
the bag is exchanged free of cost if this one breaks.
we are unconsciously annotating signs as we breathe
in the company of haphazard fluorescent bulbs
lined in the reserve are a stuttering fallacy of rituals
where spring grew last year, passing away like a premature child.

ii.

the remembrance of every sunrise
is the wilted flower from yesterday’s moon
the winds are harsh and hailstones pelt silver shadows.
an orange wisp of a fruit rind lies on the kitchen table.
its membranes are thick and grainy—
the grief will be watered like the stray flower outside
it is all encompassing, all pervading and it flows.

iii.

the sea is a string of blue and white froth
it churns to create a buttermilk-like foam
soapy with the anvil of tomorrow
where two bodies join in a silhouette of gray
under the pressing moon and silver foiled waves.

 

 

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