Aakriti
Words fall off the
ridge of my nose
Inverted ants
descending
the vertical
tower. The jaw hangs
in the middle of
everything.
There is a towel
wrapped around
my tongue. The
body
soaks its own
saliva. The weather
is the flesh
blushing bright pink
in its fever. The
sting circles into a mound.
I mumble and
raspberries
blow into
oversized proportions.
Mouths of ants
come to the harvest.
The day is long
and vertical
as I hang my
body
on its bone. The
sweet chirping of nuclei
envelops the Pepsi
spirit
And the soaked
hour of the body
finds its lonely
poem.
Scott
i take a small
poem out of my pocket
and peel off the
wasp-paper
it tries to sting
me with a drunken window
i play as if i
know my part sing a dirge
the poem is now a white-jewelled
ghost
i dance around it
looking for any moisture
the poem does not
talk but it can swim
the gasoline is
beginning to fill up the hallway
i have to soothe
it so it doesn’t cheat again
i have never
caught her in her cat costume
i bark and swing
out with fresh kills
the hole in
gravity is her skipping electrons
her negative
gradient has been delicious
but she is not
here anymore
i tear open the
bedding and the pillows
not there either
but my legs vibrate waspwings
my hands open and
close with tiny yellow jaws
my body wraps in
paper and i am wax
and honey and i
don’t know if i am still
alive
Aakriti
Blood opens the key. The blind woman is
humming in the corridor. Small wasps occur in my palms. I skip the grenade and
arrive in the middle of everything. Gravity curls around the thigh. There is a
slope to everything. God, the periwinkle flutter burns my eye. I have my tongue
clasped as the car shifts in and out of the Delhi hour. The night has its vast
span growing over the roof. I hum and I hum. Tunes colour the dimness of the
day’s tangent. I hang my bodies like chords and wait for death to arrive. Death,
sweet moth, slice the navel.
Scott
the vampire bat can syphon the blood of a
cow without the animal knowing / the cow sleeps as the tiny teeth search for
the warmth of a vein / the hooks at the end of the wings dancing across the
hide / a hyena on the savanna / then the daggers sink in / the cow dreams of a
faraway pain / a distant lightning strike on the highlands / the clouds
flashing red / the bat engorges / an unsterile vessel / an unholy taker / and
sways in the tide of systolic rush / the cow dreams of a drought and the dust
billowing in the creek beds / the bat disengages / kicks off the heaving earth
/ in this way heaven and hell are emptied and filled / and no one has died for
anyone’s sins
Aakriti
Sheets of cartilage. A murmur binds them
all. Sweet, porous sounds decorate the feet of the idol. I sit by the balcony
and let the wind chatter in my clavicle. The day slaps onto my face and swivels
around my wrist. On this occasion of Janmashtami, incense sticks stir the
entire air. I am a small hour hoping to condense further into a dot. Hoping to
grow into a wide, aching ceremony. Hoping to sit on a swing and gurgle in the
soft tooth of the day. Blood thickens and turns into a soft mound of fervent jelly.
Scott
in the dream i construct another dream / a medicine from weeping leaves / in the morning i cut roses to place in a vase / i slice off all of the rotting flowers / they scatter like a wet sneeze / at night i dream within a dream that i shovel out all of my roses / my feet baptized with weeping roots and fungus / thorns rip roads down my wrists / when i wake in the dream i walk outside screaming and blaspheming at all of the murder / all the heads and green necks spilled like arithmetic / then i wake from that dream unspooled and damned / i walk to the table and see the roses in the vase / i open the curtains and see the roses intact / i have enacted my own death / dim light and petalmusic / the inside of my inside lacerated and thorn-ribboned / i look at my arms and my wrists are quiet and clean
Aakriti Kuntal is a poet, writer, and visual artist from India whose work has been published in various literary journals including Panoply, Icefloe Press, The Night Heron Barks, and the Hindu. She is the author of God, am I your eyelid? from Sigilist Press, USA. She was awarded the Reuel International Prize 2017, shortlisted for the RL Poetry Award 2018, and nominated for the Best of the Net.
Scott Ferry sings to invisible harpies in dollar stores. He has been known to write poems. His book of prose poems is arriving soon from Glass Lyre Press. More can be found @ ferrypoetry.com.
