Unholy Women | Madhu Shruti Mukherjee

The following poem by Madhu Shruti Mukherjee from Kolkata was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

“Why are you touching it?” cried Ma from afar.

She came hurriedly to the altar

And snatched the idol from me.

“Don’t you know?

Bleeding women can’t touch God.

Bleeding women are considered unholy.”

That made me think-

This wasn’t the first time I heard the word

It was echoed at cousin Rita’s wedding.

They blamed her

For not bleeding on the wedding night

And cursed her for the unholiness spreading.

Which reminds me- not very long ago

I had offered alms to a woman

And shaken her hand when Baba pulled me back.

“These aren’t real women!” he cried.

“These are just men dressed up.

Don’t ever touch anyone from this unholy pack!”

And only yesterday

We cremated my sister who died

From the grief of bearing an unholy daughter.

Her in-laws blamed her

For being unable to gift them a son

They simply couldn’t put their family name up for slaughter.

I realized I had been lost for some time.

So I handed the idol back to Ma

And asked her to look at me.

"Don't you know?

Bleeding or not-no matter who we are

We women were born unholy."

the things we keep | Pritika Rao

The following poem by Pritika Rao from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

a monkey slips his fingers into the leather bag

strapped onto a black motorbike

that belongs to a man who is taking photographs of the mountainside

the culvert is sprayed with blood-red paan

the graffiti of the poor

the green shrubs have plastic debris beneath them

stacked like glistening Christmas presents

a few ripe jackfruits hang from the trees

while some weaklings have broken and split in the carpet of dried leaves

a stray nail from the plank of wood

digs into my thigh

as I place my order with a middle aged lady in a patterned cotton nightie

we receive two cups of coffee

that taste like diluted jaggery

and a plate of pillowy idlis drowning in sambar

we watch as a stray dog just escapes

the raging wrath of a bleating van

and barks defensively as it disappears around the bend

the lady rushes to survey the commotion

and we all collectively offer the dog our quiet support

satisfied, he proceeds on his journey

the monkey has gone

the man returns to his bike

he picks up a spectacle case and ratty keychain

from the damp mud

and rides off into the cool evening

as we all re-settle into a state of calm,

something catches the light in the distance

the monkey tries on his new pair of neon sunglasses.

anxiety. poetry? | Aditi Upadhyaya

The following poem by Aditi Upadhyaya from Bengaluru was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

I feel anxiety in my right foot

in the middle of conversations

at the dinner table

doing my laundry

solving an equation

my right foot starts shaking

suddenly, abruptly

and I have to excuse myself

I graze my fingers over my palms

I count the number of things I can see

I wanted to write a poem

on my anxiety

in the hopes it will make me feel better

less anxious, even

i am trying so hard to make this poetic

but we can’t romanticise this

my anxiety is not poetic

it is deadly, scary, dangerous

it is not sacred, not beautiful

so the next time

my right foot starts shaking

and I run away to graze

my fingers over my palms

I will just remind myself

these are the same hands

that bleed poetry

anxiety is not poetry

but my hands are

and I will keep telling this to myself

until either my anxiety goes away; or becomes poetry

Nail | Anshu Pandey

The following poem by Anshu Pandey from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

There's a tiny crack on my nail.

"I've fought with my anxieties

To nurture this beauty. No, I won't cut it."

So I shaped it an almond leaving a tinier crack intact.

There's a tinier crack on my nail.

Days pass by and my silly self feels I've fixed the problem.

I go about my regular business but

Whenever I pass my hands through my hair,

A strand of hair gets stuck in the crack.

Again.

And again.

There's a bigger crack on my nail.

That day in the shower,

Completely unaware, my nail broke

And got lost with the irreversible running water.

There I have it. A broken nail.

Why did this nail break?

Why did it need fixing?

The nail on the wall is quite sturdy,

The one that has kept the clock stuck to the wall.

But then it's just a broken nail.

What about the other brokenness?

My Mother | Anushka Das

The following poem by Anushka Das from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

my mother is decreasing

she tip toes barefoot about

the house to not make a

murmur of her existence

my mother is contracting

she nibbles at our leftovers

until the morsels choke the

base of her throat

my mother is dwindling

she has a shadow which

attempts to detach itself

and a reflection which

strives to crack open the mirror

my mother is shriveling

she is a ghost wearing

cheap moisturizer laden

skin over appendages

that rattle when she moves

my mother is condensing

she cries but within time slots

to not allow the full throttle of

her sorrow to manifest

my mother is recoiling

she stands at the edge of

family photos such that one

of her limbs is always cut out

my mother is shrinking

she has an arched back that

curls more inwards as

she makes up space for us

my mother is a frail framework

of brittle bones and tattered tissues

she has nourished this house

with enough love to call it a home

but every corner bears shackles

the size of her withering wrists

her larynx is a morgue

with unsaid words

rotting like unidentified cadavers

my mother is

one-fourth

the woman she

could be

three-fourths

the woman she

had to be

so I excavated

years of generational

expectations

from in-between

her vertebrae

and asked her to

straighten her spine

I told her that

I will always look

up to her

If Not | Mathew John

The following poem by Mathew John from Ernakulam was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

If you would prefer death to poetry

Then, let a poem be

Among the waymarks,

A U-turn

In the midst of stars,

A black sky

Still alive in the silence,

A querymark

In the field of vision,

A teardrop

Somersaulting in the skydive,

A dead leaf.

The Language I Breathe In | Ilina Sinha

The following poem by Ilina Sinha from Tezpur was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Once upon a time…

Summer breaks meant dusty village roads, home,

golden beetles and fireflies that slipped into our bedroom at night.

Once, there lived little sparrows on our roof.

Before the roof cemented and strictly meant

‘no space for nests’.

I write them letters.

‘Dear little sparrow,

You left unnoticed.

I wonder if you still remember home.

If ‘home’ means something more than your fore-fathers’ distant memory.

Home isn’t always a place.

Sometimes, it is that 2-sec silence to the question

“So, where do you come from?”

Sometimes home has no roof,

but a hand to hold on to.

Such fragile is our existence, dear sparrow,

we are dew drops on a blade of grass.

Endangered.

Endangered.

Extinct.’

My letters to the sparrows are more soliloquy than solace,

written in an endangered language to an endangered species.

We all need a place to belong.

Google says- ‘A language dies every 14 days.

A species is wiped away every 9.6 minutes.’

We rarely realise that a species is the biological equivalent of the entire human race.

History, Art, Mozart, Networking, Information

lost without a trace.

Evaporated.

Like a dew drop under the sun.

That. Is. Extinct.

When the crusade came,

the Phoenicians, who gifted us our first alphabets,

fled inside a dead volcano for life.

When my forefathers heard gunshots,

they fled beyond valleys and hills…

blood on feet, sweat on forehead,

and the surviving words of my dying language on their tongue.

They planted the family tree on this land - named it ‘home’

No soil, dying roots.

Home, isn’t always a place.

Sometimes there is no roof, but a hand to hold on to.

The last time I visited home,

the horizons shrank back in my body.

There was no raindrop.

No sparrow

Not a single voice echoed in my mother tongue.

Only a prelude to our eventual insignificance.

My freezing hands reached out for the rusted trunk.

Pulled out the old stethoscope,

letters, worn out photographs.

I placed the stethoscope on my heartbeat.

Fingertips on pulse

and heard the chorus of blood-rush:

‘home, home, home.’

Kali's Dance | Navjyot Kaur Vilain

The following poem by Navjyot Kaur Vilain from Le Monastère, France was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

The Mother has stirred

From the dark night of destruction

In the wake of tyranny

Amidst the denial of the sacred

She has arisen

With a surge of rage in her veins

And with divine justice in her heart

Be warned

Her howl resurrects the silenced from their stupor

Her eyes burn to the core of the countless crimes

Unveiling dark paradigms and darker narratives

And layer upon layer of lies and lies and lies

The heartbreak, her shield, her force to shatter the madness

O the primordial force! the Goddess of goddesses ! The Black One !

Noble titles bleed away as her feet stand engaged in virtue

The warrior untamed, loyal only to the source

She needs neither consent nor ceremony

For she, the rightful guardian of destruction

Guided by ferocious wrath and fierce love

Armed with fearlessness in the face of ignorance and hypocrisy

Fuelled by the injustice to the spirit of the soul

She strides upon the violation of the land and the death of the truth

As humankind sways to the beat of disorder

Wings of the world clipped by the vultures of deceit

Her bare feet tread upon the ashes of arrogance

Uprooting an ill-authority of misdeeds and malice

Crushing the foundations of a bloodsucking reality

She has risen to slay the predators might

She has risen to sever the bondage of obedience

She has risen in the name of freedom

She leads from the shadow of humanity

From behind the curtain she clings to the lost souls

She dances

Destroying the infectious virus of greed

From the foul scent of decaying minds

She dances

To the crematorium of illusions

Burning the pillars of power and privilege

She dances

Unhindered flames purify versions of vice and hate

The smoke purges sick structures of oppression

She dances

With the flow of her seasons will

The dance of death and life and death and life

Her rhythm holds no reason for he who cannot dance

Within her passion for life and her honour of death

The unseen Majesty of love

The ultimate restorer of righteousness

Grounded within her timeless grace

And ever blazing fire of life-giving abundance

Planting the humble seed of consciousness within the heart

From a love ignited by the calling of the truth

More intense than the fires that consume

A love more fierce than her fury

Defender of the light, bearer of the truth

From the darkness she rises to rebirth the sovereign law

“Oh glorious Kali

From the sanctity of your omnipresent love

Evoke the alchemy of change

And rebirth a braver new world”

In the name of death

In the name of life

And in the name of love

She dances.

My Land is Bleeding | Ambika Raina

The following poem by Ambika Raina from Darjeeling, West Bengal was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

It's been a long time now, two decades of existence

It stung me before, it still pricks,

These seemingly superficial questions.

The shell remains, I have the face

I have the nose, I have the grace

The shell remains, the only trace

The only trace...

But still under the yellow maple,

Or in loose dinner discussion,

You'll ask me, hey, where are you from?

It's a casual conversation.

It's a casual conversation, sure,

For you the answer's easy

But I will have to rack my brain

How do I say,

My land is bleeding?

Let's not intensify

I'll take it slow, this should be breezy

I'm from India! I say with conviction

Traveled all my childhood

Amusing answer,

You probe further,

Unsatisfied

I know you are.

So Raina huh? Aren't you Kashmiri?

Well. Congratulations. I guess so.

Instant reaction - Wow! Exotic! I love roghan josh

Well good for you, I'm glad you do

I love it very much too.

Do you speak the language? No I don't.

Ouch, but I still smile

Where in Kashmir? Srinagar. Oh wow!

Ouch, still smiling meanwhile

Don't you go back? No I don't.

So where do you stay?

I stay in Gujarat,

In Punjab or Maharashtra..

Just not in Kashmir.

AWAY.

Water's Story | Sonali Pattnaik

The following poem by Sonali Pattnaik from Ahmedabad, Gujarat was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

the falling from above

of water reminds us

that the story of water

remains half told

water gives, takes, dances

and destroys

it surrenders without

relinquishing a drop

of its power

it’s a paradox,

a talisman of

the truth in resistance

do not let water

and its generous falling

trick you into believing

that she is gentle and appeasing

she flows, feeds and forms

for herself alone

water is held and holds

without boundaries

banks are contours

to her infinite body

your banks she is certain

to break and overflow

she is not made to be controlled

through the years, ever so silently

she will rearranged

the mighty land’s structure

through her meandering course

like love, water only

appears contained

the fount of all birth

water never truly belongs

it is not only fire that undoes

water caught, chased,

choked and harmed

is self-damnation

she will explode every pore

of the parched firmness

you stand upon

water is given to release

and flow not to fall

she will become you as you immerse

in the end over your limbs fold

the falling of water from

above reminds us that

water will not be caught

let her be many,

let her fondle

and enter the earth

to rise again and again

she is here for love

for it is not fire, but water

that ignites many a hunger

and ends many a thirst

water, a testament

to life’s divine and delicious

contradictions

was here first

yet her story

remains to be told

I'll Play The Blues For You | Asmi Sundru

The following poem by Asmi Sundru from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Do you see the blues?

Blue pages, blueprints.

Flipping through our lives

Trying to write it down

Or write it off

Blue erasers, blue pens.

Make some mistakes

Then delete it

Or repeat it again

Blue skies, blue seas.

Limitless like our souls

Tied to the tides

Fleeting with the wind

Blue detergents, blue dustbins.

To wash off our sins

And discard our trash

Or fill it in our sad minds

Blue nails, blue skin.

Because in cold spirits

All warmth is gone

Replaced with illnesses

I see the blues everywhere.

Uniform | Susanna Correya

The following poem by Susanna Correya from Chennai was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

do you remember the day you outgrew those black buckle shoes?

your toes were sardined inside them but you knew better

than to complain about the serious lack of wiggle room.

that grey pinafore stiffened into a sheet of lead.

its straps hung heavy on your back and bent it out of shape.

life was so dull in greyscale.

your unoiled braids began to maneuver themselves

out of the serpentine red coil of ribbon and untangle.

(in retrospect, your back was not the only thing that got bent out of shape.)

what about that garrotte of a tie?

how promptly it tightened around your throat whenever it sensed

an inflammatory mob of asterisks, hashtags and exclamation points

charging towards the exit!

(you swallowed a lethal amount of those.)

it's a good thing you can regurgitate them now

like the formulas and the facts you regurgitated

on those answer scripts that were expected to be--

what was that word they used?--

uniform.

Horror of Lights | Probal Basak

The following poem by Probal Basak from Hooghly was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

In a not so ordinary day

someone somewhere somehow

trumped up the plan

to wake the world up from

primitive darkness under its hood.

As the world woke up to lights,

too much lights around,

it craved for even more

like the colony of beetles

flies to the smoldering wood.

As our world continued its walk

into the horror of lights, the

addicted eyes lost eyesight one day,

and, the blind world laid an egg,

unlike the one the firebugs brood.

Streaming | Kanupriya Rathore

The following poem by Kanupriya Rathore from Jaipur was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

I like to make a fuss

in picking a movie we

will never watch because

you want to touch me too much

we argue

over Nana Patekar’s

best work

and for a moment you forget

all about my breasts

you are lost, in a fight

you are now having with yourself

about the brilliance of another man

it is easy to like you then

we lie on the couch

the only solid thing, as you fight your nemesis

my old bra, I am grateful

for your neck and for

 the stray dog that is now ours

I take a sip of your beer

How come we don't have a song, I think, we kiss

later, when you're holding my foot

up against  your chest

I wonder, if I wore too much eyeshadow

for a night of Netflix

 and this

on the screen, Nana Patekar mouths

the words of a song, I laugh

maybe this could be our song

We talk, about your mother

how she forgets your name sometimes

another beer for you

that I drink most of

the credits roll and we are washed in the

light of names, many names

and none of them are us

Family Tongue | Rahat Tasneem

The following poem by Rahat Tasneem from New Delhi was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

My father has many tongues,

but little feelings to go with them

and is sparse with his words.

Maybe you don’t need too many words

when you have a miscegenation of languages

at your disposal.

My mother is certain, and verbose in her monolingualism.

I struggle between my two languages-

one found, one forgotten.

All of us still fail to understand each other.

A Pot-Pourri of Email Openers | Gunjan Nanda

The following poem by Gunjan Nanda from Dehradun was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

'How to kill Isolation boredom'

'Sick of the inside of your house?'

'New skills for a new reality'

'New Normal: Picnic at home'

I wake up to the buzzing of a new email alert every morning

'Feeling Stressed? Schedule self care with these 5 easy steps'

Hmph. Stressed while at home? I think this is the best paid vacation I would have ever asked for

'Stay safe, Play from Home and win unlimited real cash daily'

Hah! If I had a nickel for every email I've ever received like this one

But wait, did you see what they just did? They're taking advantage of this golden opportunity of being home

You're home, away from friends, maybe away from family, too much time on your hands, maybe too little because you're overburdened with WORK FROM HOME

But for those lucky few, 'earning real cash' might just be it, a saviour in a physically distanced world

'Check out our exclusive selection of Face time ready shirts'

(Because who wears pants anymore?)

I think of the realm we live in, and the realm we need

Much like the broken clock in 'Alice in Wonderland',

perpetually stuck at six

Are we stuck?

'Stretch marks? Cellulite? Veins? XYZ waterproof body makeup has you covered'

Pretty sure I'll need this after eating tons of cheese-laden deep dishes and coffee cakes

(Add to cart)

'Travel with your taste buds’

Interesting! Always thought travelling was an actual verb.

Although my palate does like the idea of being guided

Thai for dinner? Naan and Paneer for lunch?

Count me in, Virtual Chef!

'Why Physical Distancing might last for some time'

Now this one got me thinking

See, here's the thing about distancing yourself from the world, you should do it anyway

Do it in a way which isn't obnoxious or nasty

Do it in a way that saves lives (politely)

Behaviour is the one thing we, as humans, have very little control over

Everyone is stressed out, fearful and anxious for their own health, we need to be sensitive and sensible Try not to be the town watchman

MOVE BACK, someone says

Didn’t you just come back from one of your international travels, another one says

'6 feet apart' was never this consuming

...

(Another email buzz)

Together at home: We may be apart right now, but in some ways we're more together than ever’

Riot | Elvin Lukose

The following poem by Elvin Lukose from Mumbai was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

doors latched shut from the inside

he sits on whatever remains of the toilet seat

at a roadside latrine

smoking his flimsy cigarette

watching the smoke ascend

to irritate the halogen glow

of a bulb that hangs hopelessly

from a leprotic roof

the bucket is filling up to the brim

drop by drop

from the nozzle to the bottom

keeping time

in a suddenly timeless world

he can see the flashes

on the door in front of him

like a movie

the civil barter of warfare

of petrol bombs and molotov cocktails

the only company he has now

are these buzzing flies

fleeing from the clouds

of phosphorus

of gun powder

and ash

he can hear the police

the blaring microphones

the battle cries of the street warriors

the goons

the guardians

and the invisible line between them

he peers out of the window slits

all he can see are

legs running

bodies darting from point to point

some of them interrupted in their tracks

by a gunshot to their belly

only to fall onto a puddle

of their own blood

soon to be motionless

lifeless

he is getting used to the pounding

on the outside and the inside

there is nothing worth watching anymore

his eyes haven't closed since 3 days

there is no dream

there is no sleep

no night

no day

just flashes of amber

and smog from the pyres

he sits back on the toilet seat

staring at the little streams

meandering between patches of moss

on the moist floor

spiraling into the closet

the fetid stench is suffocating

but bearable

at least it doesn't smell

like blood and fire here

the cigarette is shrinking

down to the filter

his last fix

is about to end

his eyes are wearing out

his toes are pruning

from the wetness on the floor

he lies down, curled up, legs to his chest

head to the knees, in his own little womb

he can hear his mother

singing his favorite rhyme

like an angel stroking his weary head

within a tactile memory

he still has two match sticks

and one more cigarette on him

as he holds its crooked body

trembling between  his fingers

and buries it back in his pocket

for safekeeping

for future

no matter how long it is

or how short

he will need to stay there

for a few more hours

maybe even days

it looks like it will be awhile.

ice cream summer | Meghna Chatterjee

The following poem by Meghna Chatterjee from Kolkata was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

Trigger Warning: Sexual Abuse

iv.

that summer, i

held an ice cream stick between my legs, it

stayed still for a while, then melted

allatonce.

god, that feeling of falling down a rabbit hole.

iii.

"write about love", 'write about love', write about love,

to hide what you can't write about.

come under this bed, it's dark and cool and dark

ii.

fingers, my fingers, some fingers, play a dangerous chess, look there's a hole

in my dress,

maybe we can slip through it like water,

look there's a noose in my dress

i. 

black mold on my teeth;

lockjaw, self-imposed, but that's a given;

we push and pull like an elastic band

Family Photograph | Nidhil V

The following poem by Nidhil V from Brampton, Canada was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

a lonely camera looks on,

at five imperfect people and five imperfect smiles,

five imperfect sets of clothes and five imperfect stories,

that have been paused,

to steal this perfect moment, from time itself.

blinded by the flash, they huddle around the camera.

dots of blue and purple, curtain their vision,

and no one notices that there’s five people,

and only four sets of teeth.

dadi said they’re crooked, whispers my sister,

crooked is ugly.

Lieutenant General Vohra beams from ear to ear.

the wound below his eye is a battle scar,

which he dons with, pride and honour.

a badge, like the ones that grace his uniform.

Undergraduate Vohra’s

gold dupatta, glimmering, like her 4.0 GPA,

is wrapped around her wrists.

her cuts reek of dishonour.

they’re from a battle,

history books won’t talk about,

and she won’t either.

my dad’s heavy hands,

rest on my shoulders.

my dad’s heavy eyelids,

droop slightly, as he stares into the distance.

my dad’s heavy heart,

suffers from undiagnosed eternal grief.

my dad’s heavy shoulders,

haven’t felt hands rest on them,

since,

my dad’s heavy hands,

set fire to a wooden pyre.

i see myself,

happy, calm, still.

still.

the me in the picture, isn’t shaking his left leg,

or drawing circles with his right hand,

and no one can tell that my mind,

has already wandered onto foreign thoughts.

what would it feel like to devour a kebab,

made out of a t-rex’s flesh?

the photographer and my mom,

are talking shop. 

highlights, exposure, gradients, contrast.

his smile says that he is impressed,

with the 45-year-old lady’s knowledge,

of Adobe Photoshop.

after years of receiving fairness creams

as birthday presents,

she found her magic wand,

in photo editing.

as we hang the family photograph,

up on the off-white wall,

someone calls it,

“a picture-perfect family.”

i smile. my little sister laughs.

this time, she can’t help but show her teeth.

A Backseat in Duronto Express | Lakshya Singh

The following poem by Lakshya Singh from Nalagarh, Himachal Pradesh was selected as a commendable mention in Wingword Poetry Prize 2020

It doesn’t matter if the engine,

sneakily crawls,

or bolts like that cold-sandwiched air

blowing past,

those weary faces,

dispersed on dull green, metallic benches

when you are lying still,

a dormant volcano,

lips shunned , eyes-shut

away from the sight of that glass window,

on that upper berth 64-B1,

which smells,

rather fumes of someone familiar,

of white-linen soaked in fingertips,

vaporizing beneath that

strangely cold, grey blanket

coiled like the hair of that lady

drifting in her late sixties,

supping her tea in a plastic cup,

glancing at the glass window

which stares back at her like

a cracked mirror.

With her back hunched as

a crumpled sheet of paper,

her name, age and a thousand other letters

carved on her round face,

the ticket collector stares

at the blurriness of her eyes:

a perfect identity card,

passes a faint, nearly invisible smile

and then moves away,

near a couple with an

over-zealous toddler sucking

the nipple of his milk bottle,

and babbling occasional “Amma, Appu”,

which fades away in the bustle of the tires,

his mother, dressed in her khaki-kurta

probably watching dunes fall back

into little grains of sand on her cheeks,

his dad, pretending to read a book,

while rubbing his son`s back.

Upon his arrival,

they sit befuddled

as an unhinged door,

she vigorously searches her handbag,

he lays hands on his narrow pockets,

nothing, mere lumps of rock

tanked like an empty silo ,

outside their window,

inside their throats.

They unzip their luggage ,

bags shut open like their mute mouths,

clothes heaped over -another

like buried, unspoken words

“It will be fine,

we`ll be fine,

you`ll be just be a video-call,

just a few semesters,

probably then a 9-5 job away.”

They check over his little pockets,

the little fingers, those curly hairs,

the bottled milk, nothing.

mere ghost spaces

and bones intertwined into one.

The TTE mumbles and moves away

with a slight hand gesture,

rather a sympathetic nod

read as” Its okay, I understand, anyways.”

It doesn’t matter if the engine

whistles or

silently drags itself with

a thousand bodies floating

through time and space,

when those fluorescent lights are already shut,

the pastel blue curtains drawn and

that bottled milk spilt on the floor.