By Akanksha Patra
When they turn the sun
on again I’ll lie naked under it,
in a field full of violets and I’ll breathe
down my mouth, make bubbles in the air,
I’ll grow wings like a moth’s and duel
with a flickering, burning bulb, I’ll drink
eight glasses of gin and dance to my sins,
I’ll wear blueberry on my lips, I’ll iron
the creases off my soul, I’ll wake up, I’ll live,
I’ll oil my mother’s back, tell her I love her,
and elope to a city where people with dreams
live like rats in a sewer, I’ll phone all my friends,
I’ll tell them I’m sorry, for all that’s wrong
with the algorithm of my body, I’ll see
butterflies flying with a single wing, I’ll
meet faces un-masked, with nothing to hide,
there’ll be enough rain for everybody and
everybody will sing and nobody will go hungry,
and nobody will ever die again, hospitals will
go empty, we’ll survive, all of us, we’ll go on,
Anne, won’t we?
Author:
Akanksha Patra (she/her) is a 21-year-old Masters student of Clinical Psychology. She is Select Writer for Terribly Tiny Tales and her poems have also appeared in magazines such as Marias at Sampaguitas, Ayaskala and Delhi Poetry Slam’s Beetle. She believes she can save the world one person at a time and is often found hiding inside books, writing away into the night and jamming to the shower in her bathroom. She is an ardent lover of clouds, butterflies and black currant ice-cream. Find her on Instagram @annesextonstan.
This piece is a part of DISTANCED 3.0.
ang(st) 