Sunlight is
only collecting
emptiness.

 

How it spills
over cobblestones—
singeing, post-card
stamping them.

 

How it snakes
into my room—
nesting its eggs
on my unread book.

 

Every word it scoops
falls                       apart,
like rocks
into sea-beds.

 

Language
down my
memory.

 

Almost anything
I am given
slips from

 

my hands:

 

mogras,

 

necklace beads,

 

grief.

 

Once in the sixth grade—
my science teacher quizzed me
on the Theory of Evolution.

 

Coughing one or two words—
I fell silent as the ruler
stripping my palms,
its heat lacerating
my body.

 

Like sunlight—
God grant me the strength

 

to keep falling

 

until I am everywhere,

 

everywhere.

 

BLOOMING OUT OF NOWHERE by Trivarna Hariharan

 


 

Photo used under CC