NOTES
SMRITI VERMA
Brothers and sisters would build shrines to some god.
From end to end, the fence – closed with bits of wood and animal carcass.
And the darkness. Father would tell us to stay put
until the huntswomen came in the morning, crossed the ten yards,
from the yellow park to where the deer and boars feasted.
The gunshots clear as the silence that followed. The winter
and the spring where we’d wait – as children – on patches
of water in backyards. Mother’s eyes to another bone, shivering
muscles, emptying herself into the kitchen sink.
That was also the time Uncle Bob came home with a bag of blood
to greet us, and our elder sister sent him right back.
We’d go to school on some self-fashioned carriage. And father-
he’ll tell us to stay put outside, while mama cried salt.
Days I’ll get her share of food. Days we’ll wagon past the huntswomen
at 6 am, watch the purple skins on their hands and feet.
The cheeks dropping like Gran’s wrist. Days which seemed
like dreams of another season when I’d visit again-
yet the shrines were still there, the patches of water around them – all dry and dead.
From end to end, the fence – closed with bits of wood and animal carcass.
And the darkness. Father would tell us to stay put
until the huntswomen came in the morning, crossed the ten yards,
from the yellow park to where the deer and boars feasted.
The gunshots clear as the silence that followed. The winter
and the spring where we’d wait – as children – on patches
of water in backyards. Mother’s eyes to another bone, shivering
muscles, emptying herself into the kitchen sink.
That was also the time Uncle Bob came home with a bag of blood
to greet us, and our elder sister sent him right back.
We’d go to school on some self-fashioned carriage. And father-
he’ll tell us to stay put outside, while mama cried salt.
Days I’ll get her share of food. Days we’ll wagon past the huntswomen
at 6 am, watch the purple skins on their hands and feet.
The cheeks dropping like Gran’s wrist. Days which seemed
like dreams of another season when I’d visit again-
yet the shrines were still there, the patches of water around them – all dry and dead.
URBAN
SMRITI VERMA
We won’t be good girls anymore / pill, shoot, sketch / spent too long fitting into denim crass / and Malibu Barbies, curved spines / these yellow beds stretching towards the edge / look at this skyline, burns with orange summer / dark blue summer / look at this house, this dolled up piece of wood / domesticated wood / look at this sofa, look at this leather / we spent half our lives getting fucked / the other half making children out of straw and flour / the eyes, the bones, the toe cavities / what a waste / the lighter spraying water on the front lawn / look at my hands, scarred with knives / I’ve cut this soil loose with salt / the worms eating their way to the surface / look at my skin, golden cup / this street, so old / this view, so late / look at the curtains I washed fifty times, two times a year / the beige, the plastic / you don’t know but at night, I’ve seen the hags come out / what a waste, this house / I’m so old for this story
SMRITI VERMA grew up in Delhi, India. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in The Adroit Journal, B O D Y, Cleaver Magazine, Word Riot, Open Road Review, Alexandria Quarterly, Yellow Chair Review, and The Four Quarters Magazine. She is the recipient of the 2015 Save The Earth Poetry Prize and enjoys working as a Junior Editor for Siblini Journal, Poetry Reader for Inklette and Editorial Intern for The Blueshift Journal.
