by Sneha Subramanian Kanta
like a bunch of unwanted pamphlets
crumpled together and sellotaped.
We are running, everywhere
to sounds of missed buses,
on television, prints of newspapers,
the distance your eye takes you
it aims to watch a road full with fog.
The yellow sunbeam pinches
before it splits the story ahead of you
The arms, legs and limbs of
while their eyes remain static and watchful.
Everything is not algebra.
Make it known to the painters —
of women, seated in an armchair.
and skin scars from childbirth
No body sees the matchstick
that has lit the corner bonfire
Sneha Subramanian Kanta finds credence in non-linear forms of looking. Avant-garde art, untold stories and tales of refugees are matters close to her heart. Her work is forthcoming in Fallujah Magazine, ZOOPOETICS, Serendipity, Erstwhile Magazine and the first print anthology of Peacock Journal and elsewhere. She is a GREAT scholarship awardee, pursuing her second postgraduate degree in literature in the UK. She believes in forms of dissents and uprisings, renaissance, letters and the word et cetera.