“We do not say ourselves like that in poems.
We say ourselves in syllables that rise
From the floor, rising in speech we do not speak.”
– Wallace Stevens, ‘The Creations of Sound’

The poem hurls queries from within,about the serenity of existence and attempts to find its own truth. Archana’s muse, fathomable words and her iridescent persona speaks louder in every syllable as we go on reading.

– Devapriya, Poet

There is a pill I take,
For every day I live.
There is a pill I take,
For every time I scream.
Is there a bit in this hole,
That could be my possible stroke of serendipity?

There is a branch I climb,
Every time I dream,
Of silence, of resilience,
Of peace.

There is an alley I like to hide,
Every time I’m scared,
The swarming bees
Keep me safe.

But most of all,
There is a prophet with boorish eyes,
Who likes to come into my dream,
To remind me that God’s love transcends my raggedy universe.
But if it does, shouldn’t it have reached me by now?
Or did my dingy doll scare it away?

I wouldn’t know with the blood in my hands;
White blood, losing colour.
Who am I?
A Dead Parasite.

Cover Photo by Mary Jo Hoffman

About the Author

Archana Pingal

Archana is 18 years old and currently preparing to crack the law entrance. She is from Calicut, Kerala. She loves books, movies and music.

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