The path taken by my grandmother’s piano thrown at the moon
then unknots itself on the swing wetted behind the tree. Distance is the process by which light splits on your teeth as you stand on your tiptoes. Morning begs a confrontation with your eyelids, but you let its pastoral be. You allow your hair to take back what death gives. If the moon wants to paint an undifferentiated gash or a cuticle, understand that it will never hiss to warn the birds about their madness. There is a limit to how we shuffle, because the name strained bed sheets always thickens with words from the skin gathered in the morning. You cook eggs, stuff them with the sky’s interruptions. I never complain about their taste. The mist still rises around the apples.
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.