A Key to the Noon Bells

Suddenly, an inadequate skin. My mouth always made up of curved suns, their lights buried under moth wings. How they stretch the emptiness of bones. In me the forests grow into a girl. I remember my grandmother moulding the limbs of the dough every Sunday morning in the kitchen. It smelled of the obedience of the first female skull. There the words died in the snaked rivers of her palm. How her hair miraculously untied the earth’s order in front of the mirror. Anything that does not follow a room should be eaten with one hand.

Shinjini Bhattacharjee's poems have been published, or are forthcoming in Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gone Lawn, wherewithal, Red Paint Hills Poetry, Literary Orphans and elsewhere. She is also the founding editor of Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal.