Outside, the red wounds cultivate around the morning calves. When the insects are wet, we can only crawl and cling to the webbed summer pulled out of water. I mean the house escapes a little whenever we shift lazily. Believe in the thick membrane of the sky, or the blue-veined fatigue turned backwards inside a straw hat. If the water dodges air each time it hits the sink, the glory of our palms will sting. The emptiness blushes in the garden, used to the ribs that die around it. We run inside, cook daisies and shrimps with honey, burn the remaining flowers upside down. How we mean the loss of the season. How we sing an anomaly in lieu of an altar.

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.