New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

A poem from our second prize winner – Akshaya Pawaskar

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That quaver on my back
came to life as I bled,
ever so slightly.
But bore the needling pain
As the sewing machine
A patch over my pale skin
and made it indigo black
and rain washed
My demure image and made
it into rebel. Here I stood
with the same
Face but the value had cart
Wheeled. I was the same girl
But now I had
been the one tainted with ink.
The ink that shaped my words
Inaudible as they were unuttered.
They took a form of poem and
spoke loudly like the
Wailing wind and crashing
waves and the quaver on my back
sang and smiled at my
Backbiters and rendered them
toothless. Yes I was loud,
as loud as they come.



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