waiting in the wings

Anshita Palorkar | Poetry

the maw of gravity with its bloody tongue

– a bear trap. prelude and prologue, i land  

​

onto an empty, endless, soundless street

the sun is a burning, greedy thing today

and all its arms are out to get me. 

​

one step and the tar is roiling 

i reach down, one claw at a time 

the surface rends – mercury recoiling. 

​

the sky is raked in banners of silk, dark –

raised by dead gods from every-which-where.

i'd still fish for leftovers if it were blue. 

​

i'm a ragdoll, clutched in the grips 

of a harvest moon, dripping red. 

the sunset, long abandoned, a thief,

swallowing the sky offstage. 

​

dress rehearsal, role reversal. 

the air electrifies, and i must now 

meet my makers. 

​

creative license has let them freeze

a primordial’s time and blood within.

they guffaw. “playing with fire, ironic.” 

​

at long last, enter eagle. 

i must pick him apart, day in, day out. 

​

on death row, they give me a choice.

"for your last meal, a god or a dream?"

"time," is my reply. they oblige. 

​

i am flung down to the boiling street again 

to count my fish, upside-down.