Giant

Painting: Edvard Munch, Puberty, 1884–85.

for I grew up
at empty
parking-fields

with charcoal
penises
scribbled by

kids, on the
underbelly of
sleepers

On empty benches,
riddled with
moss, and oldies

cul-de-sacs
strewn with
wrinkled lash-leaves,

and the august smell of
piss

I’ve stargazed
my funeral rites
over the

shoulders of Ogres,

gifted my body
the same
caramel wounds

it gifts me, every night

Kicked a man
in his nuts
again

and again
and again

till his whiskers
froze
the aubergine tang

of my rapist-to-be

I’ve trod on the moon
with eyes as

empty

as mother-of-pearl
preludes

Half-fed
men, with
breastmilk

that kept

trickling

in midst of drought

and still

on every thirtieth,
the moon
impregnates me

with strawberry stares
and nocturnal
coos

it drains my
womb
of blood

as red as
the aubergine
man’s

irises

Love,

I have
never once
mastered

the air with
which
market-lassies

wave
Fedoras,
as

red

as the blood
they smear
Sierras with

as I lie on your
frog legs, as

distant

as a prostitute,
post

ejaculation

on every thirtieth,
I cradle my
barren

ovaries, like

purple-veined
eyeballs

of an unborn
fetus

my kinda Autumn

Mama, I have
never
learnt to be

giant

--

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Ritoshree Chatterjee

Ritoshree Chatterjee

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