Revenge Body I distrust polite graces, the sunshine offends me so does the solitary bench in the shade I am repulsed by babies in strollers and fresh, red bouquets on the train The rain, crossword puzzles condom ads, mowed lawns are all out to get me, I'm sure I startle at the sound of footsteps and slamming doors For a while I refused to have Boba tea or alcohol I was born into a small case delicate shoulders, soft face I'm a house mouse living on, by trickery I guess I got away I tell myself I'm lucky I'll still cry some Sundays for no real reason at all maybe the war maybe more mundane, proximal loss Tears shed what weight my body bears Phantom wounds remain under my skin even as I forget names, places, faces, things for no real reason at all On other days I look down at what is - palms, breasts, torso, toes I am finally substantial Material. I couldn't tell you for sure, but maybe, I'm healing somehow
Toy train ride I pass by Hobbit homes Back yard chairs and smoking chimneys, Look - they had a barbeque it seems And here are some chubby cows Black and white and brown and white Splattered across green fields Young people strap to their chests Tiny drooling babies They sip wine - their hands are free Sealed windows and sealed doors Carpets or wooden floors No dusting needed today Nor the remaining week I can finally sleep peacefully I stare out my window Bath, Brighton, Bolton, Bury I didn't check my phone I'm out of reach News of bombs and elections Never found me I roll on here, month after month smoothly
Birthday song Last night I was a child again I had this funny dream – the filling in my brain was glittery beauty cream that drained away as I opened my eyes and suddenly, twenty six years had passed me by Mom, mommy, mama – I've called you to say I woke up this morning feeling ugly wretched and big repulsive and grey I cower from caresses, everything I touch burns away into ash and dust. Lessons learnt from years of bedtimes stories, Soft whispers you fed my ears grew me up promptly – I sedated my lust Dust, like the kind you carried on your feet in the day, around our home, in the lawn by the trees and washed away at night, lest I sneezed I still remember how porcelain bangles settled on your porcelain wrists You were a temple statue perfect, pretty, pure. Now everyday I check my mirror, dead afraid to see your eye-bags flab, wrinkles, pores I forgot how to touch like I forgot the words to songs and verses in my mother-tongue and twenty six years have brought only curses myself, my body, my home gone, gone, gone like all the black strands that were knotted in your comb Now at midnight my skeleton screeches ghosts and imaginary friends lurk around my orifices my body feels crooked weighed down by stones all protrusions and rounded bones I've seen how beauty fades ugliness is endemic, living under our roof for shade a squatter who will not rush the tape worm that sucks my blood, my winning flush I wait and wait and wait for bright syrups you’ll pour down my throat before noon gently press the Band-Aid wipe the acne off my face Mommy, I’ll wait
The Day My Couch Grows Wings Today I ate three bananas snatched back from flies half of a rock-solid protein bar three weeks old the wrapper cold and one big mug of spicy tea for my throat. Summer burgeons, the sun glares down and sneers Thanks, but I prefer the shade. The stains on the bed linen slowly fade, day after day – I’ll be here, just the same. I used to dream of speeding trains of people (and myself) suitcases, tearful smiles, a new arrival It's been a while since my dreams dissipated like coughs. Today I neither forgave nor forgot just lay there, bare rearing bacteria, and other living rot their thick lairs in my grimy clothes, strewn, on the carpet beneath blank walls. Waiting and bound to this town - all glass and red, I lie on my back like I'm waiting for death or for a day that brings, a prophecy - my couch will finally grow wings.
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Saumya Singh is an emerging writer with a small scattering of published works. Her previous fiction and non-fiction pieces have been published in magazines such as Out of Print and Feminism in India, as well as shortlisted for the Rama Mehta Memorial Writing Grant Award. She is currently pursuing a doctorate in Counselling Psychology from the University of Manchester.
