Dream in which I imagine my mother as a paper doll

Shinjini Bhattacharjee

Once inside, I dress my mother’s
eyes from scratch—school it with

the salt of the oxen waves that un-map the
skin of the sea humming against their weight.

Meanwhile, the young tulip tree that she grew
in the backyard softens into the shape of darkness.

Outside, I hear the voice of a man who slips the
bodies of his two buried children through the fog

after his wife finishes counting their ribs, questioning their
bruises that held sufficient grace to borrow another year.

Somewhere, a hare crawls on all fours
and prepares its throat for a capable panic.

Soon, soon, the house grows old. One by one,
the calm leaves turn sleepless in our hands.


Shinjini Bhattacharjee's work has been published in Cimarron Review, decomP, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Red Paint Hills Poetry and elsewhere. Her chapbook There is No Way to Alter the Gravity for a Doll is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press. She is also the founding editor of Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal and Press.

Comments

  1. Carol Ciavonne says:

    Beautiful.

  2. terenia says:

    It’s beautiful…

  3. Nancy Meyer says:

    Otherworldly images

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