Whenever I put the river
beneath my mouth
the owls scratch out
the word space in plural.
Most of our breaths go missing
when the throat spits out fists
the size of untethered leaf vein
running inside a summer ground.
As a child I thought that toes
always implied adventure.
One by one stone shaped wrens
tumble out of the brooding coffee.
Their faces look like nightmare
Is the easiest way to pronounce
for a brick shadow’s graveyard spine.
Even plastic knows how to playact
when we stamp air inside it.
Shinjini Bhattacharjee is a poet and the Editor-in-Chief of Hermeneutic Chaos Literary Journal. She considers herself to be a lexical photographer who loves to rummage through language to find words that smell like infinite spandex, and weave them into images to cloak her experiences and emotions. Her poems have been published, or are forthcoming in The Stray Branch, Metazen, Four and Twenty Poetry, Dead Flowers: A Poetry Rag, Danse Macabre,Nostrovia! Poetry,and elsewhere. She is also the author of Masquerading Fawn, a poetry chapbook. To know more about her, visit here.
–Art by Simona Capriana