est. 2022
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ISSUE 4: ETHER
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NEERAJ PALNITKAR
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Ketchikan
Neeraj Palnitkar | Poetry
After the Ancestral Lands of the Tlingit and Haida Indigenous Peoples
In a dark wood, my eyes catch a moth, or a will-o'-wisp,
a scarlet flame dancing, haunting the air. My feet
stumble, succumbing to residual seasickness. The axis
inside me quivers, pulls toward the water. I've seen it
before. Not this place, but vastness: an unmoving
ocean, a field of sweetgrass trembling all at once, the darkness
of midnight. It’s all the same. Almost grotesque.
In my narrowness, I’m nearly a feather, a spruce needle,
a silver seam on the forest’s brow. Little Hair could be
the name. Never mine. I own nothing here, not even
these legs knee-deep in saltwater, reeling,
tumbling backward. How could I keep my balance
in this body that isn’t mine, on this ground where I am
trespassing? When the rain hardens, dropping
like stones, I square my shoulders like an eagle raring
to fly. And when the last of the motion sickness
shakes me, I understand. This land is used to grief, scarred
and starved for a warm palm to the soil. Still, the forest
extends what it hasn’t yet lost, some shape I can’t
define: the leaf of a sapling, the ear of a rabbit, too tender
to touch entirely. It’s a slow, gentle bravery
that only the bereft know. The fog parts
and my gaze fixes to the trees, standing in thousands.
This is all new growth, a ranger tells me, be gentle.
This earth is far from nameless.
For its sorrow, am I ever truly blameless?
Neeraj Palnitkar | Poetry
So let's have a little fun. Remember that
boy, the third-grade
bughouse champion. Be kinder to him.
Send his bishop
to B5. He will thank you later. Stop thinking
about what to say at
your mother's funeral. The timeline
is miles away. Move your rook
sideways and watch the sky
run to stone somewhere. Watch the cold
wind unlatch. An old man in the park
says he's played against you in ten different
lives. You have lost in all of them. The myrtle trees
are blooming. That means it's
July. That means you're in check. Your future
self would know what to do. Let him lend
you a hand. Here, a pawn. In some world
it's you, passing through multiverses of premeditation
and potential. When you slide your queen
forward, you slide a hundred ways
through a hundred lifetimes.
To hell with it all.
Throw the whole board out the window. and watch
this world shatter like glass. Mold
the shards at your feet into
a new one. This moon could be made of ashes
for all we know. In seventh grade
you read a story about chess tournaments
and rewards. Forget the mural. Forget
the salted plums. There is not much
time. Call this life a stalemate. Listen to the one
song taht always makes you cry. Tell the old man
you will beat him -- you already have at
some point. Take a look
in the mirror. Another you winks back.
A thousand hands have pushed you toward
this moment. Why not sit in it for a while?
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Neeraj Palnitkar (he/him) is an undergraduate student at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. He enjoys writing about the natural world and mundane moments in life. In his free time, he enjoys reading poetry, listening to K-R&B, and perfecting his chocolate chip cookie recipe.
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