things feel foreign

your skin is a gifted kimono gathering dust in this city’s forgotten closet.
your hair, suffered many contracts between the heat and humid, is now given waivers by
                                                                                                                                                   the wind.

your lover meets you in a field, but the bazaar is in her eyes and you have turned
your ears are no longer shells bearing water sprites but carriers for dead things this city

your patient returns, with a symptom in one hand, and love in another, you know you
                                                                                                                     must take both or neither.
your heart was under construction but is now hard as hammered glass, and no one can
                                                                                                                                                      peer in.

your hands, well, your hands were always your grandfather’s that you wore as ill-fitting
your nights have been thickened by unease and you wake up like a bird blinded by the sun.

your poems roll, an entire film before your eyes but your memory frequently loses the plot
                                                                                                                                             and the pen.
your faith is now a weapon of mass destruction.

your country is now a misnomer, a signifier slipping between home and prison.
your name has begun to utter itself, it has no more need, of your tongue

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

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