How to construct a room with wet hands
Let us hold the room, one by one. Let it breathe between our elbows, watch it fall with the ache of the real axed on glass. Here we are, stripping identities like candy wrappers. The edges of the room whirl into postcards of Sabbath, fragile as the warm hibernation between two rapid emotions. Stretch them till they stitch themselves to the fields of the spiders’ shadows. The lamp is wet, dripping with the motion of red-wheat centuries away from its origin. Dresser to the left, bed to the right, words in between. Words, they dangle in air reel like seaweed crust, skin like the one that smears itself on the forgotten scarf. Blanch them. Stew them. Make them inedible.
Shinjini Bhattacharjee’s poems have been published, or are forthcoming in Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gone Lawn, Crack the Spine, wherewithal, Red Paint Hills Poetry, Literary Orphans and elsewhere. She is also the founding editor of Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal.