Mytili Jagannathan
Scribble
There are no words save words. Folly to even try to count. You have no access except the shallow art of your eyes. Born a covert daughter, a wish unscrolled and years later, folded to codex. There is no mother here, little egg. Brink of the gorge: thistle and almond and fig. Brink of this street: Though I am walking through the window re-absorbing your body as self-propelled While nested as one member of her people, a people who—she had been told— A tiny room with a giant heart and centuries and tentacles. A blue golden field of micrography. jangle the amber baby I heard you-- this way of living incredibly powerful and resilient tears me apart Because influence is a close cousin of corruption, I stood with my dress waving permission in the guise of a leaf. Not present exactly, but close. Re-lighting a story about how I discovered the occluded past through your hands. It means something to refuse the hard line, to assert languages listening to their life inside each other.
spawn of polyhymnal gods caught in the talk market
Having chosen the knot of our present circumstances—
hopefully, I remain yours, |