By Paridhi Poddar
The sky shifted the flame on the stove, rising and falling
into colours now claimed by mortality; none our own today.
Our center is all the same, a school on holiday, deserted,
an aquarium decorates the entrance with fish swimming aimlessly.
Little metallic dragonflies support the ceiling,
they show you an aisle to join, always gendered.
My name is not on the list yet.
My sister jokingly says, “Call it an identity crisis.”
Today the paper reads of symbols and words, a little damp
from echoed perspectives, pouring names that do not roll off
the tongue. They cover it in a bitter distaste, letting your
mouth turn stale until it all tastes the same.
I focus my eyes on a stray cat loafing nearby, looking
for pets from each one who is present, but when
the clock strikes twelve, it goes to the watch-guard of the
school gate for its lunch, eyes completely blank.
The hall inside, I’m told, has a Machine.
When she steps out, I ask her how the Machine sounds.
She says like a buzzing, indecipherable—maybe like
a school bell, telling you freedom lies on the other end.
When she steps out with that mark on her finger,
like an ink, a bruise turns purple on her nail.
Her hand, her will, too, is caught between the doors that
lead to the same destination—
one we’ve not seen yet.