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Chittrakatha - last night with her at the care ward
I have it down to a science
but they say it is an art too
I have been shaping
mantras
from my lips to yours my eyes are waterfalls
they travel into yours
that night, I had brought
your favorite books along
you preferred silence, your
fingers encasing my spine
they knew each vertebra, its code
I wipe you down, cooling your fever
reminding you about
your tinctured tongue– sharp and electric how my words
have spent centuries
inside your spinal fluid
syllable
by syllable
embedding
stubborn stories from my atlas to your axis
I grasp at your iris, the fish floating
inside them, they mist over
for one last time, as if to sip
at the full bellied cry
that is rising in me,
your pulse gripping my fingertips
as I listen to your errant beating
at Erb’s point—
lub dub
lub dub
lub dub
perfect punctuations
a dancing wind chime
I cover your absent face
with one porous poem
the final one, an obituary
written by your bedside
I let it unfurl, like a new born leaf
it bleeds a hibiscus into your veins
as they calcify, I braid your hair
and as they get ready with a checklist
I sterilize my hands with your stillness
- Chitrakatha – chitra meaning picture and katha meaning story.
Chitrakatha is the Indian cultural tradition of women narrating stories with a visual aid.
Forbidden fruits
homesick…
an edible canopy of
fiery blossoms
fallen mangoes…
I bottled my pickles
before quarantine
last summer –
an aromatic sherbet
of alphonso juice
forbidden fruits…
maa slices mangoes
for me on zoom
lost cities
What will we do to not become cities
ravaged by war, a troy fallen to greeks
meteorological omens, all doubts cast
away with the rising of a blood moon
one conquering, another falling, the
moon rising against the wall of minds
an eclipsed sky
What will we do to not become cities
eclipsed by prophetic moons, where
God’s or Goddesses stare helplessly
when we march towards armies only
to bring home dismantled suns and
lunar lit chants
What will we do to not become cities
humming of oceans, lashed sleepless
by the hollowed tide, her water bed
lays wrinkled, its furrows blooming
with final moon flowers, as we tread
sdrawkcab backwards
like our dead
Kashiana Singh lives in Chicago and embodies her TEDx talk theme of Work as Worship into her everyday. Her poetry collection, Shelling Peanuts and Stringing Words presents her voice as a participant and an observer. Her chapbook Crushed Anthills is a journey through 10 cities – a complex maze of remembrances to unravel. Her poems have been published on various platforms including Rattle Poetry, Poets Reading the News, Visual Verse, Oddball Magazine, Café Dissensus. She serves as an Assistant Poetry Editor for Poets Reading the News.
Kashiana carries her various geographical homes within her poetry.
Very moving…