LEAVES
Suchita Parikh-Mundul
We are quiet until a breeze
rustles us.
Passers-by hear the static,
put false twos together
and believe our nature is noise.
We explain that we are victims
of circumstance,
that we are essentially leaves,
hanging on.
STARS AT A
SYMPOSIUM
I once lost my
bearings at a symposium
and began to crawl
on my knees
as if the sky was
about to crash overhead.
The constellation
of minds onstage
continued to
shimmer like holograms,
radiating the
brilliance of the sun.
It must have been
this that blinded
me as I hit the
floor on all fours
and slunk out of
the theatre,
wishing I was a
star too.
LIFE OF A
FREELANCER
On some days I’m a
bovine
soil-trampler
belting out songs
into an empty day.
On others,
I gulp death on
quick pavements.
Only the wink of
the moon
tells me which
I’ll be,
and that is the
gift
of twilight.
Suchita
Parikh-Mundul
worked as a writer and copy editor with magazines and
