They look into my eyes, and ask me my name.
At this question, I shift uncomfortably, my ankles continuously rub the ground, and my toes claw at the earth, trying to excavate an answer.

beneath this cover
of autumn leaves
…a footprint

Praniti Gulyani

Aunt Maria Pura is a pious woman. Religious practice is deeply rooted in her life: everyday she goes to the first mass in the morning and she confesses regularly. The knowledge of the holy texts makes her feel strong and secure. The weight of the Church’s condemnation is a stigma. Surely, she never gets to the point of questioning miracles, oracles or prophecies  or Satan, even if all these things oppose reason decisively.
During times of crisis she always knows what Saint to call upon for help: she has one for every occasion.
St. Geraldo Maiella who intercedes for pregnant women;
St. Zita, for the fatigue of the housework;
for desperate and difficult wedding cases, St. Rita da Cascia;
St. Margherita da Cortona, whose lover refused to marry her even after she gave birth to a child, for the unwed mothers;
St. Elizabeth of Hungary for problems with in-laws;
St. Elena, whose husband put an end to their marriage in order to marry a Roman princess, for cases of divorce;
St. Alfonso Maria de Liguori, one of the busiest among the Saints that the Church has ever known, for those who basically struggle to make a good use of their time.
“And as long as the house keys are misplaced, St. Antony will never miss his devotees” she uses to say.
She can never get enough. And when someone tries to talk to her about the world outside, Maria Pura’s laughing expression is immediately dark.
Some days, although I pass in front of her, she doesn’t see me.  She stands there, immobile, with open arms, as  though in expectancy of stigmata …

in procession
Saint Anthony’s  face  fills
facebook walls

Antonietta Losito

ratcheting down up stream the scream

so let me see, you don’t really care but every now is the wish that wasn’t, right? had me that time though, even as I wasn’t going to look, the fog shifted: so nearly wild up and down the sense spectrum but then the rhythm of the Nabhi chakra pulsed; the draw into the Void

green slipping into green

Samar Ghose

I heard the two magic words today. Wren. And Martin of course. I couldn’t catch the face that said it, but I have a good memory for voices, and it will not be long before I match it to the face. From which I will then proceed to pluck out the eyelashes one by one, and then make him eat it garnished over stale poha. This colonial hangover, the rules of which can be observed by both Mr. Wren and Mr. Martin only in the breach, needs to be given a decent bonfire, preferably with its supporters in it.

But though I peer at the conference-goers stuffing their faces with rice and gongura chutney, I am unable to make out the voice. But I reckon there are others who share my sentiments, so I can relax in peace that the assassination will happen soon.

in the closet
the violence triggered
by my violin

Raamesh Gowri Raghavan

He’d call me to his desk and show me cat stuff. Grumpy Cat memes. Cats playing pianos. Cat video ensembles. Cat GIFs. Boxing cats, ninja cats, bathing cats. Cats in funny clothes. Surprised cats. Then one day, he stopped.

Claymore field …
the narrow road between
mother and father

Raamesh Gowri Raghavan

There are people who probably deserve no less than Pastor Oats’ double-headed battleaxe. At the least, a bastinado. Okay, a verbal ticking off. Fine, fine, I believe in ahimsa. I shall just be passive aggressive. No, that will not do? Yes, okay, I will smile and shake hands.

feathers fly
a nut
is casus belli

Raamesh Gowri Raghavan