Red and green textile with embroidery

Antonym of 'do the needful and stop thinking of returns'

Purbasha Roy
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How innocent of me to think of kitchen-jobs and
laundry now. Is this the way to give indifference 
a few extraneous breaths. Does this make a coward 
of my senses,  or this is the entangled physics I was
spoonfed. The way herbal dye is by my hair. Changing 
eumelanin's DNAs coil-by-coil. The wind have altered 
directions. I was on my knees for a long time. Now, they 
hurt. So, I raise my body like an undrooped flag. My body:
a country. I dream to have full acclamations on it. Its
affectances. Like the camphor smell on the surfaces it
touches. No matter if it’s outlandish like rotten potato
rind. I want my mouth to understand sitting in the
cover field of just. My mouth wearing silence in its
navigations of false peace and endless nights of porous 
warmth. It should practice surrender to fonts that open
themselves only to true songs. It would be then, my 
mouth would learn how to help, stop the dying of body
parts, braided to something gorgeous in a parasitism 
symbiosis. Whole my life I have waited for someone 
to make me understand what I want to convey. And 
how to do that greedless. Beyond wondering what mess it
  does to me or others. I am done standing on thunderbolt 
branch of acceptance. Frail and vulnerable. A little of me
always burning. That the world stays dazed as soft light

How innocent of me to think of kitchen-jobs and
laundry now. Is this the way to give indifference 
a few extraneous breaths. Does this make a coward 
of my senses,  or this is the entangled physics I was
spoonfed. The way herbal dye is by my hair. Changing 
eumelanin's DNAs coil-by-coil. The wind have altered 
directions. I was on my knees for a long time. Now, they 
hurt. So, I raise my body like an undrooped flag. My body:
a country. I dream to have full acclamations on it. Its
affectances. Like the camphor smell on the surfaces it
touches. No matter if it’s outlandish like rotten potato
rind. I want my mouth to understand sitting in the
cover field of just. My mouth wearing silence in its
navigations of false peace and endless nights of porous 
warmth. It should practice surrender to fonts that open
themselves only to true songs. It would be then, my 
mouth would learn how to help, stop the dying of body
parts, braided to something gorgeous in a parasitism 
symbiosis. Whole my life I have waited for someone 
to make me understand what I want to convey. And 
how to do that greedless. Beyond wondering what mess it
  does to me or others. I am done standing on thunderbolt 
branch of acceptance. Frail and vulnerable. A little of me
always burning. That the world stays dazed as soft light

Purbasha Roy is a writer from Jharkhand, India, and has published in Mascara Literary Review, Acta Victoriana, The Saltbush Review, Strange Horizons, Pulp Literary Review, and elsewhere.

This piece appears in Logic(s) issue 20, "policy: seductions and silences". To order the issue, head on over to our store. To receive future issues, subscribe.