On his Sunday mornings, I bury my prayers
in our backyard to remain intact while the bells toll,
reminding myself that breathing can exist outside of the four walls.
The cryptic of morning dew has far disappeared &
multitudes of his kitchen rattle have ceased like time.
I lean away from my sight to find his ankles-
heavy and wretched on the stones.
A breeze of autumn disposition has come
to greet my morning breath
& I let out a hushed scoff on nature’s humbleness
that still tends to his falsehood of preaching despair.
He drags the metal chair cutting the hymns enough for us
to realize the betrayal we commit every seventh day in our chambers.
I plate his killings of plants and eggs to assure our fasting hunger,
& His shadows cut through between our sunlight
marking the graveyard of unheard words.
He draws his fork together with the knife as I pour honey
as if wanting to weigh out the sweet
in the bittersweet aftermath of our morning rituals.
We count our shared minutes in our separate countable eternities.
I swallow my eyes with the poison he pours in my chalice of wine.
On my Sunday mornings, he buries me with his forks and knives
& I remain intact- torn away- but intact in his intestines.
The cryptic of morning dew is buried deep within his fingernails
and the multitudes of his kitchen rattle have ceased to exist.
Part aspiring writer and part warrior, Akrati Mehrotra (she/her) is a high schooler from Northern India. Her work has been published in Ayaskala Magazine. More of her works can be found on tumblr @/akratiisalive and instagram @/akratimehrotra.