Ahana Chakraborty

on Sunday mornings I dream of koi fish

in the kitchen it’s always you          & your hands
for instance     the kitchen counter where you laid down the rohu
                                                                                           & Rothko-red sunlight
the white-hot of your jaw     swaying    moments before whalefall I want
you in all your red-limbed glory oh but who will wash the fish & light the stove
you laugh     grey head thrown back all crooked canine & lovely bone this dawning
will unmarrow me someday       deboned we stand above the sink waiting
until the koi fish are still          & the koi fish are still        & spring spirals
into the parentheses of your throat     soft as my spleen in your hands
believe me I’ve been stripped             & gutted             to the point of love
                                                                              when I was seven I clenched my jaw
                                                                              & haven’t opened it since a newborn
vagitus remains stuck to the ceiling fan of my throat              gut hook-shaped
& lovely as the day you grinned like the first ring of a gunshot
                                                                                                         bare-necked &
                                                                                                         bullet-shouldered
pressed against the shell of my ear I swear      I could hear where the ocean
                                                                                                         swallowed
                                                                                                         & began

in the kitchen

there’s a fish on the countertop &
a knife of your hands. curve against curve,
wave against wave. the blue of kitchen tiles & 
the gauzy smell of ocean. god,
forth
you’re so in love, you could kill it right now
snap the damn koi’s head backwards.
break the spinal cord; you’ll kiss the pain away
later. back against sun, so soft & so close:

your thumb against the puncture hole—
where the gut hook pierced through.
your hands in her abdomen &
she watches hazily—the light that spills

& your hands, thin-bladed, that catch it.
sun-limbed, anyone could fall in love
with the redness of your mouth. even
the ocean.

Ahana Chakrabarti is a high school student from India and a member of her school’s English Editorial Board. When she’s not finishing last-minute lab practical files, playing with space & the absence of it is one of her favourite things to do, aside from pestering her brothers. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Broken Antler Magazine, The Shore and Bleating Thing Magazine.