by S. Rupsha Mitra
In the voice of Shakuntala
And there are days when the mad heart turns brave,
With its arrhythmic beat stuttering in a monotonous way
It wants to clutch onto something
That something it beseeches itself to forget.
Someone somewhere lures you to ecstasies,
You are mistaken — you know,
Yet you turn raw
In the sputtering sense, soiled, mati stained, marinate
Over and over and over
You want to summon them and say
_hey hold me until I fall_ _again_ ,
You want to traverse the rocky pathways, the granite mounts midst
You want to sink in
And fill the hollows with the smoothened slime,
The sleek crystal waters
That gush by
You want to say how you feel
But you lie knee-deep, sodden
Perforated with so many pauses like a poem.
You are afraid there is no coming back.
You are afraid
you are afraid
It has never been so close with the earth. rather close, that you could talk of separation.
You can only sit
Taking in all the warmth that space could provide at that time and
Tell yourself witness the self.
Know the now, be still, turn to
All the power greater than anything else
feel the heavy thrumming beat,
S. Rupsha Mitra is a writer with a penchant for everything creative. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly, London Reader, and Mekong Review. Find more of her work on her website.
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