Outside, the sky slits itself open. I sneak in
through the back door, grief lying dormant:
half-formed & sleepy. My viscera flutters &
I watch sea-sand coupling beneath my
window, aching for another country.

I scrub my hands in the kitchen sink,
murky water splashing down the drain,
flex my fingers twice, just in case
(god peers over my shoulder & laughs).

Therapist says I’m ‘impulsive.’ Every time
I see him, I think predator. Memory gaps
rendered me helpless once. Now I hide
when deluged, tendons gasping.

Rachana Hegde is a sixteen-year-old poet from India who collects words and other oddities. Her work is a study in chaos and blurred memories, and she is dissonant in the company of strangers. Her poetry is forthcoming in Alexandria Quarterly and Moonsick Magazine. You can find her reading, drowsy-eyed, or at

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2 Responses to Impulse

  1. goldenf says:

    Beautiful and moving

  2. Pingback: #AmWriting: In Which I am Learning & Growing! – spun

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