by Vaishnavi Pusapati
I was raised by the T.V and the fridge,
that lights up when I open it,
behind locked doors and sandwiched
between loud neighbours, making myself sandwiches,
on plastic plates with plastic butter knifes,
without washing my hands.
I have made myself a blanket fort,
moved the chairs and sofa around, for this.
I shall have to move them back before 6:00 pm,
a time I find myself, looking forward to, less and less,
drawing them out to be, fading people, in photographs, their faces, smile,
witness me metamorphose; the metamorphosis of the room.
The kitchen table, fool proof, all hazards banished.
All the interesting things, the iron, the makeup, the office papers,
scissors and knives, safe from me, behind locked cupboards.
I was raised behind locked windows,
invisible prison bars, from which I saw,
children playing and screaming,
in a little park, so many of them, yet no crowd.
One of them I know, her name is Rose,
and I want to give her some.
The sunlight touches my shadow and
the vase that is cracked but hidden well.
For now, the story is, there is no vase,
there never was a vase to begin with, and
in the end, there was perhaps, no child either.
About the Author:
Vaishnavi Pusapati is a physician and travelling poet. She has been previously published in Roanoke Review, Prole, Palisades Review, InkPantry, Shot Glass Journal, Havik, Litbreak and Heron’s Nest, among others.