In Which I Dream My Mother into Being by Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Coimbatore
Because the May light is upon me again:
looking on, & the zinnias, petunias,
bougainvillea, & roses spread in the garden
their faces lifting above the wall-fence,
unknowing of loss. Your inheritance claims
me as its own. From the doorway, I
glimpse you in your summer gown: morsels
of bread in your hand, picking them
into smaller crumbs, calling out to birds.
As usual, the squirrels tug at tomato
plantations, & I watch them all afternoon.
The meaning of longing is both absence
& loss. I see your shadow appearing between
gaps of dusk light amid the branches on
the wide terrace. Our bodies are an offering to
the evening sun. The leaves rattle as a gust
of southernly wind passes. Stars begin to gleam
across the horizon, & fireflies in their fitful
reverie swarm through the porch. The night loops
its emptiness until our mouths fill with silence.
Outside the window I see an orthography of trees
being lullabied by a gentle breeze. The last birds
are flying away in smaller packs of threes and fours.
Tomorrow is another day I will attempt to shape
loss & align it in my palms. I dream you into the
memory of your voice, as the keeper of a thousand
gardens. I sing into the silken chords of dimming light.
Because the May light is upon me again:
looking on, & the zinnias, petunias,
bougainvillea, & roses spread in the garden
their faces lifting above the wall-fence,
unknowing of loss. Your inheritance claims
me as its own. From the doorway, I
glimpse you in your summer gown: morsels
of bread in your hand, picking them
into smaller crumbs, calling out to birds.
As usual, the squirrels tug at tomato
plantations, & I watch them all afternoon.
The meaning of longing is both absence
& loss. I see your shadow appearing between
gaps of dusk light amid the branches on
the wide terrace. Our bodies are an offering to
the evening sun. The leaves rattle as a gust
of southernly wind passes. Stars begin to gleam
across the horizon, & fireflies in their fitful
reverie swarm through the porch. The night loops
its emptiness until our mouths fill with silence.
Outside the window I see an orthography of trees
being lullabied by a gentle breeze. The last birds
are flying away in smaller packs of threes and fours.
Tomorrow is another day I will attempt to shape
loss & align it in my palms. I dream you into the
memory of your voice, as the keeper of a thousand
gardens. I sing into the silken chords of dimming light.
Sneha Subramanian Kanta is a recipient of The Charles Wallace Fellowship at the University of Stirling (2019). A GREAT scholarship awardee, she has earned a second postgraduate degree in literature from England. She is the founding editor of Parentheses Journal, and reader for Palette Poetry and Tinderbox Poetry Journal. She is the author of Land: Body / Ocean: Muscle (forthcoming with dancing girl press).
Julia Forrest is a Brooklyn based artist. She works strictly in film and prints in a darkroom she built within her apartment. Her own art has always been her top priority in life and in this digital world, she will continue to work with old processing. Anything can simply be done in photoshop, she prefers to take the camera, a tool of showing reality, and experiment with what she can do in front of the lens. Julia is currently working as a teaching artist at the Brooklyn Museum, Medgar Evers College, USDAN Art Center and Lehigh University. As an instructor, she thinks it is important to understand that a person can constantly stretch and push the boundaries of their ideas with whatever medium of art they choose. Her goal is for her audience to not only enjoy learning about photography, but to see the world in an entirely new way and continue to develop a future interest in the arts. You can find her at her WEBSITE and on instagram: @Juliajuliaajuliaa