Wednesday, November 2, 2022

Four Poems, Sneha Mohidekar


skin in/side means
viscera/l lee-side protects
interstitials buttoned/interstitial
buttons protect
the biting wind/she
eats/the skin off her lips
eats her lips eats her skin
enamel enables
whispering/requires the means
to close your mouth

cut fruit

she douses her hands in orange juice
pretends it’s blood
pretends to have slayed a giant, harvested its heart
pretends the empty chambers are whisper galleries
pretends to hear secrets, technically articulated
pretends they’ll slip on a technicality
pretends that was the question

she sucks blood off her teeth
pretends it’s orange juice
or, doesn’t pretend—

end of the world as we knew it 

the fish are tilting at windmills
the pigs have bulked up and backwards and sprouted feathers
like a dinosaur, or a chicken
we stay inside and watch
and try to keep our siblings from escaping out the bathroom window
to tilt their heads back and stick their tongues out and close their eyes
trying to catch scraps of sky
falling as brown-bottle sea-glass

the atmosphere is fracturing along ley lines and 
we were wrong about them
(their placement not
their existence)

all the perforations in the earth
(oil wells, water wells, well, well, well)
are singing best of the 2000s
I can hear you harmonizing

one of your sisters asks if we can go get milkshakes
my brother asks if he can drive
he isn't licensed, though, I remind him
and he laughs so hard I think he's folded his lungs into origami shapes
shooting star, airplane, butterfly

when we leave the drive-thru, I have a foot out the window
and one and a half fingers on the steering wheel—
my body has become liminal
you have an arm and half your torso out the window
reaching to pet the wind's soundwaves
you raise your whole chest to ask me
voice curling gentle between the cupholders and the gearshift
will it hurt
I pretend not to hear over the sound of the smog ripping into composite parts 
you don’t ask again
our siblings are in the back
they're so big
expanding into the space and then expanding it
they're making shapes out of the clouds
and dripping hamburger juice onto my seats


the cartographer draws
fractals and eats them
the wind brings her erosion
the cartographer carves her face
of the cliff with her maps of the cliff
hangs reality on record
there is salt in the water
and in the wind and in the way
displacement is a vector and
is loadbearing caves walled in water
carry the cliff

Sneha Mohidekar (she/her) reads poetry theory and queer space operas on the train. Her work can be found in The Indianapolis Review and Ghost City Review.

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