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suppose i dress for another night,

hair unfurled, skimming my bruised

shadow. i wait out the rain & raise the

damp month to dry, the days fluttering

with all the grace of moths battered against

a window. it's oct 14th & i have one chance to leave.

creamy pinpricks of light fist my hair

& it's shorn in one go, forming an exit wound,

sweet & unfamiliar like trisha and her broken

iphone buzzing in the movie theater.

the wind is bloated. pebbled curtains sop up

spilled milk. i knock on wood & worry about

the sunken portrait of a pear propped up in the

kitchen sink, which is overflowing with light &

twenty poems on post-its.

the day is wrung from my soapy palms,

trisha's smile sagging like an afterthought.

rachana hegde


     for T


love is squeezing oranges, pouring

milk, soaking clothes in warm soapy

water. it's a person. or the altitude

of a triangle quivering in sunlight.

i say, i am scared of living too long and

my god taps my shoulder, they ask

what is freedom but faithlessness?

god says i am an excuse for the skunks

skulking in brothels, a reason to wallow.

i mean fuck condoning violence.

you know i cannot fall asleep like this,

with the quiet thriving beneath. once, i

sleepwalked into a chapel and hatched

an apology. it felt like burying a skull

in a bucket of cold water or pulling apart

the edges of a worn carpet. these are just

ways to sing our history into being. one

of many paths merging in your mouth.




Rachana Hegde collects words and other oddities. Her work is a study in chaos and blurred memories, and she is dissonant in the company of strangers. Her poetry has been published in Alexandria Quarterly, Moonsick Magazine, and Hypertrophic Literary. You can find her reading, drowsy-eyed, or at

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