Painting: Morning Sun by Edward Hopper, 1952

A balmy July
eventide,
and you

clench my
cold
clamlike

palm
as cedar
shingles

harden,
like
festered

knuckles
of Saturday
old man José

At times, I
wish for
you, to

holler,

‘Black sesame rolls and pork intestine!’

pass by my
graying
windowpane,

dragging
aquamarine
carts, and

fatherly
smiles,
eaten by

kelp and

grease stain

Days of
tiny
lotuscups

plump
shrimp puddings
tiger-striped

blue snail
shells
you’d

spare out
of carts
and I’d

await, like
gardenias
your

mothballed
feet, at
weekdays

I want you to
somehow
notice

three ruddy
vertical
slits

I almost
adore, on
my left

wrist

and an
interlude,
after

almost

With my
cold
clamlike

palm, in
yours, and
my

almost

sterling
girlhood,

spreadeagled

like lozenged
strawberries,
and your

Penthouse
lingerie,
fantasies

we glimpse
the season’s
last

meteorite

pinning
our ridiculous
hopes,

on that
suicidal
seraph of

ashes

--

--

Ritoshree Chatterjee pursues her undergraduate degree in English literature and struggles to locate herself through writing amidst the chaos.

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