Sneha Subramanian Kanta
The membranes over an unpeeled orange
reside like block one, two and four of
the building. Coteries of human dwellings are laid
beside like lines of starlings.
The little neighborhood girl is back
from school, running against west wind. Her forehead
brims with geography lessons, Croatia and Verkoyansk
in Siberia. The brain drifts wider than this place, touches
flakes of snow.
Winter. Trees shed their leaves, recite scenes
we did not record. The park benches into solitary stances gaze.
It is summer in the sears of her heart,
it opens like an envelope.
She leaps barefoot into the meadows, her face,
a reflection of the flaxen expanse.
The dusts of autumn shine in rows of unnamed constellations.
When two points meet, they do not essentially intersect. When not conjuring ironic philosophies, Sneha Subramanian Kanta pays close attention to the languages of leaves. Postcolonial literature and history from the margins are causes that resonate with her. Her work is forthcoming in Burningwood Literary Journal, Dying Dahlia Review and art in Anti-Heroin Chic and elsewhere. She has also been featured in international literary anthologies such as The Dance of the Peacock (Hidden Brook Press, Canada) and most recently in Peacock Journal's first print anthology published by Little Red Tree Publishing. A recipient of the GREAT scholarship, she is pursuing her second postgraduate degree in England.