One day your teeth feel softer against the push of your jaws. It seems like you have woken up in someone else’s body: the quiet pulsating nerve presses upon the skin like the edges of a rivulet. I am told that identity exists, but I learn it is as futile as it forms. The whole form of life is distorted, like the sounds from the engine of a static train on the sidetrack of a huge field. The juice from roses which leans upon the spine of a hardback meanders in search of elsewhere. The skeleton conjoins a body and is remade again. There are no codes for where you belong, only post office numbers or pin codes. I dwell between two narrow lanes where peace resides: nobody looks at you to draw blood from your thighs that are tall and thick like the diameter of a waterfall. We are used to algorithms, not voices of the body. You can blame the city but municipal councils do not come with warning signs. There is an entire continent dwelling upon one grain of froth like the padding inside deep sea beds. I write a letter with semantic coherence and place it upon a wave over the deep blue sea. There is no language inscribed upon its body: it was drenched and moved along lines swarming entire continents.
Sneha Subramanian Kanta is a GREAT scholarship awardee, pursuing her second postgraduate degree in literature in England. Her poem ‘At Dusk With the Gods’ won the Alfaaz (Kalaage) prize. She is co-founder of Parentheses Journal, a collaborative venture that straddles hybrid genres across coasts and climes. Her work is forthcoming in indefinite space, Calamus Journal, Mad Swirl, and elsewhere.