Shruti Mungi
Again I think of the lady who frowned at my shoulders too much skin, too much life she lies trapped in yards and yards of history not unraveling what does she know how I carve pain on my arms how I breathe it in and swaddle it like a child it needs, feeds off me my baby, the sharp pain I inhale and I know I’m alive I have to choose my words carefully god can’t be real god can’t care for so many burdened souls I hold onto this thought like an injured bird let it bite me in places it hurts the smell of death is also the smell of incense his body encased in glass can’t be dead if god exists if god exists, his eyes are windows to where I want to be not here there are words I will not say jaws clenching, eyes tearing up always for fear that angels are not angels their smiles will turn crooked if you look too long just don’t look too long
This work has been published in Beetle Magazine's July 2020 Issue
Illustration by Dhanashree Pimputkar