After I die,

I want to be folded into a thousand paper cranes and set alight.
I want to be the dark gathering water in my lover’s eyes.
I want to be the fingers of dawn smudging windows of every mourning home.
I want to be a nettle of grief pressed into the palm of every book I write.

I want to be reborn as the fate line on my mother’s hands.
I want to be reborn as my father’s hushed footfall.
I want to be my sister’s flyaway curls cursing the wind.
I want to be a transistor radio spitting out old Hindi songs while Amama knits.

I want to be hymn and honey, to be holy water and prayer.
I want to burn before I end, like both God and incense.
I want to be both tomb and entombed, to be both crypt and script.
I want to be a word trace.

I want to be the carefree laugh of a broken wind chime.
I want to be the hum at the end of every street dog howl.
I want to be the whisper of pages turned at midnight.
I want to be a thicket of quiet.

I want to be, like before, the chant of fate.
I want to be this earth’s ready recall.
I want to be ready to die.

I want to be
a vivid repetition.

Karuna Chandrashekar is a psychotherapist practising in New Delhi, India.

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2 Responses to After I die,

  1. Nadine says:

    This is so beautiful ❤

  2. Sakhi says:

    A sanguine piece of writing. Feeling inspired by it. It’s beautiful.

    I want to be the autumn leaves that line my driveway
    I want to be in the flavour of the food my daughter cooks
    I want to be in the song of that nightingale on the birch tree
    I want to be in your poems, your drawings, your handwriting
    I want to be in the reflection of your mirror and smile at you
    I want to be in that rose you plucked from garden we made

    Will be reblogging your poem and adding my own lines.

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