We Shall Not Die of Exploration
But May Birth A Life
As a child, I always asked my mother
why her maternal aunt always made
a god out of situations & cursed god
afterward, when things did not go her
way. She smiled—understandingly.
I do not remember the month or
year, only charcoal black streaked skies
as butterflies retreated into their abodes
in the chiaroscuro evening & that the rain
fell slant like a descent of lightheaded jelly
beads. My mother pointed towards the
deadwoods & sang a song. I thought, this
place is an Ouija board, where lightning
would strike. When the rains were over,
two saplings arose out of a tree bark.
She left some grains of wheat in a ceramic
bowl when the sun came out again.
By noon, a blackbird had made a home
out of the ruin & my mother and I were
on the burlap path again, the closest my life
has resembled a prayer. When the voices
died, there was silence, as though there
was no chronology to god but plenitudes:
foliage, rainwater, mud, sunlight, the wind,
a sweetness on the face of my mother.
Sneha Subramanian Kanta is a GREAT scholarship awardee, and has earned a second postgraduate degree in literature from England. She is the founding editor of Parentheses Journal and author of Synecdoche (The Poetry Annals) and Prosopopoeia (Ghost City Press).