Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Three

Shivani Sivagurunathan


— for Akka Home is its own geography. Where we stood as children of stilted iguanas, Condenses in a thought, It returns to us on days aged by flagging mint, That fresh existence buried under charred rocks, Sometimes a fly might carry out memories Of its smell and how our legs skipped past comical toads, Resting kingfishers, pond fish that sucked upon moss, When as those new beings, We could tell the age of the sun, We could see through distant sea waves And crack our knuckles against favourable puns Because we knew our creatures by heart, And everything close, our organs grew plants And fruits became of them, we ate our livers, More would grow, Like lizards and their tails, ever-renewed, Until then, on one midnight plate, The moon dropped and wounded herself Upon all our greenery and it was time, you said, To dig for the world and fix the eye of the iguana upon it.