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Divya Venkat Sridhar

diwali

but if i squint
               this plastic IKEA tealight will sting
                                       like lime pickle
                                                   on the tip of my tongue
                                       char my lips
                                       like tamarind in sambar
                                                     press wisps of smoke between
                                       my thumb and index finger
                                                     like appa’s cigarette under the sofa
                                                     if i blink hard
                                                                 the diya will gutter
                                                                 like amma’s voice
                                                                 when she talks about her father
                                                     and weave a tapestry
                                                    over this night
                                                     that freezes up
                                                     and melts onto my palms
                                       when i squint
                                                     i pour the ghee
                                                                   until my lips burst into
                                                                               bunches of brown flesh
                                                                               and burn in some
                                                                                             language i do not know

               i touch the flame
               and it tells me i am a liar

a fly falls into my milk

because you worry  

your palms will chew up lamplight

and wear it like a cicada’s husk 

tethering you to soil. they told you 

better to slip into the sun.  

because you find yourself 

standing knee-deep in a muddy ditch, 

a denseness pretending to  

envelop yourself in a full moon. because

you wish to be formless, flawless, 

slither beyond shadow like sun chews

the gooseberry leaves.  

you morph from bed sheets to turmeric to 

whitening cream, 

body membrane unhinging  

from skeleton melting  

wings dripping sticky in white hot nectar

because you look like clouds 

eternal like the space between  

a thunderclap and echo.  

you drown, but it feels like flying. 

Divya Venkat Sridhar (she/her) is an Indian poet living in Switzerland. Her work has been published by the Poetry Society, Rattle Magazine, Zindabad Zine, and more. Most recently, she was a 2023 winner of the Guernsey International Poetry Competition in the Poems on the Buses exhibition. When she isn't writing, you'll find her making pasta, playing the saxophone, or singing the La La Land soundtrack (terribly).

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