Flush

I think of freedom as an empty vessel

singing about god’s mercy and how she

thrashed the skies, how the rivers flocked

to her bedside as god sang the mountains

into existence. I think of death blistering along

the underside of our arms or of stabbing

fresh meat until it ripens. I dream of the

release when milk spills from our mouths,

baby teeth gleaming on the rooftop.

I dream of an origami moth’s tongue

folding and bursting into flames.

I think of gulping the smoke billowing

from our cars and wonder how fish

can plunge down the toilet but wash up

on shore, glowing clean, dripping wet

onto the sand. You see, I want to learn

how to flush my sins like purging the

aftertaste from wine. Prayers slip down

the steps of a temple and I ask god how to

wring the sadness from my body. I dream

of scraping the salt from my silhouette.

 

Rachana Hegde is an eighteen- year-old Indian writer from Hong Kong. Her poetry has appeared in DIALOGIST, Diode Poetry Journal, and The Blueshift Journal. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and nominated for Best of the Net. Find her at www.rachanahegde.weebly.com.