AAKRITI KUNTAL
Still
The very noise. The very noise that your
tongue makes when scraping your own
mouth. This sensation. These sensations.
The body hovers in a dream. At night, the
blanket is gulped by the mouth. Its wet
edges linger into the ascent of the new
day. I am a foreign particle in this
ecosystem. I spread on my relative’s
bed. I grow like a starfish. My feet want
to touch the edges that make the world
the world. My arms want to rotate and
spin. A windmill, I shall be energy. These
noises, these homes, these movements
— small, daily activities make and break
the self. I grow in the naked light and
touch my face. I am still. I am still.