a misshapen sack,
I was struck by your choice of
home: too open, fragile, vulnerable.
From this transitory gathering,
you were gone too soon.
Was it the everyday eyes that lit upon you?
The swift stroke of a crow’s roguish
feather sword? The callous leap of a stone,
unmaker of homes?
Your arriving was quiet, almost apparitional.
Your leaving loud, sentient. From the sheaves
of still-grasping leaves, rupturing anemic shadow
cliques, you exploded a blast wave of fury bees,
amoebic constellation, there in air, operatic.
The bough is quiet. On my hand, two
red hot igloos, voluptuous, tender
shades of bright. Now I know of goodbyes.
Anuradha Prasad is a writer and editor living in Bangalore, India. She writes short fiction, essays, poetry, and book reviews. Her work has appeared in Khôra (Issues 22 to 25), Sleet Magazine, Literally Stories, Borderless Journal, Usawa Literary Review, nether Quarterly, Split Rock Review, and others. BLOG SUBSTACK INSTA
< BACK
INDEX