Poetry: Pragya Dhiman

Pragya Dhiman

The language I leave behind

The nativity of this language is an adoption – a

choreography performed,

the remaining past like wheat husk

threshed, thickening the air 

with the sweet scent of sugar.

The rest burnt,

embers from my dream-fire licking

the repulsive fleshiness of my thick tongue.

I burn and immolate the wordy mouth 

and repeat the prayers that rid me

of the harshness of my script.

The non-descript paper that is my mind

forgets the language that I leave behind,

nothing classifies me as the greatest

and only time exposes the

foibles of being wordless.

***

Prayers

Who believed I could venerate soil, plant

the blood that would blossom and thaw the

winter that let itself sink into my beliefs. 

With your lips, your

kiss, the weatherbeaten skin, the arch in

the spine, your slanted eyes that gaze the

maker, you pulled out of the only heaven

you prayed for, to me.

The red hair, the blue tears, the unbearable 

tightness of living – death is just another

possibility for me to meet you again.

Two bowls of lotus in my heart, the center

a piercing desire to build a temporary

home together, this world is merely a physical 

space for us, before immortality claims our souls.

Before I pray and bruise my knees, I need

this dream to reveal itself, I need your words

to dictate my steps, I need to be reborn as such.

You could ask for my silence and I would

beg the heavens to lose my voice,

and if my fate is tied to the religiosity of my breath

I would pray to utter your name over and over again.

***

The scathing burns on my sanity

My soul a bucketful of water, a leaking

dairy pail, a

handful of moist earth and the mist of

wet breath.

I believe I was born to die.

A soft blindness is carving into my 

eyes, so I witness only the paleness

of my deeds. I grasp at the dust 

that dances in front of me, the 

vestibules of a cold sunlit temple 

that is my abode, the space that

carries my prayers to the place 

that I am meant to call my home.

These figures roam in my peripheral 

vision, at nighttime they descend onto

me. Sleep is vacant living and they slide a

whisper about the truth of what will come

to be, if I forget what is meant for me.

Insanity is a pledged death that only the

living can feel. Maybe when I lay down

to rest, I’ll finally drift into eternal sleep

and my soul will empty into mere breath,

something for my god to keep.

***

Bio-note: Pragya Dhiman is pursuing her Master’s degree in English from University of Delhi. Her work has previously been published in The Chakkar, Muse India, Defunkt Magazine, Tint Journal, Literary Yard, Poet’s Choice, Teen Ink, Muse-Pie Press’ Shot Glass Journal and more. Her research work has been published in various literary journals including, American Research Journal of English and Literature, International Journal of English Literature and Social Sciences (IJELS Research Journal), The Literary Herald and more, and is available for perusal online.

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Setu, April 2024