Adrija Ghosh

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Summer


lolls over like a wet tongue from a wet dog. i watch maa


hunched over the sink. she is scaling fish heads with a steel spoon. the scales shimmer


in the morning light. sweat sticks to her nape.


the air is heavy with jackfruit flesh making its way into curries.


my memory is a morgue. my childhood empty


except for the solitary kite string that tugs and tugs and tugs until it snaps.


the steel in maa’s hand makes ugly red indentations into her skin,


and for a moment i wonder


if this domestic docility will end up drawing blood.


the rain never stops in august.


it is vicious,

vicious,

vicious. my grief


does not see the face of the sun. it turns inside my stomach like sunflowers.


turns towards its only source of light – my open mouth in mourning.


the sun rises ripe ramen red in front of my window,


and earthen mortal men are flying into space wearing jumbo white suits.


i want to ask them if they see you tying kites to saturn’s rings.


i want to ask you,

is it lonely up there?

you tell me,

bumps on the moon is flesh,

and flesh alone in rot.


maa tells me fate is newton’s third law of motion and i believe her. i beg.


quit the spoon, walk away from it.


towards what? you challenge.


you are dead. i wait.

 

Adrija Ghosh is a multilingual, queer (she/they) POC based out of UK. Currently enrolled in the University of East Anglia's Creative Writing (Poetry) Fall cohort.