1:21 // rivermourn

Divyasri Krishnan

Further down the bank, the open swell

 

of tide beneath a new moon. The freshly turned soil

still wet, glistening. Strange beneath

 

cauterizing light. 

 

I have cut my heels

 

on these rocks too many times. Here

I might have bled, here, never. Here,

 

the divots where you dug your feet,

 

snailshell curve of shying toes, the grit

in the hollows between callouses. Here

 

I stood again. Felt the moonlight run down

 

my spine and unwind each tendon with tender

grace. Such loving hands belonged to

 

no one before. Such kindness never felt, never

 

spoken. Here, on a smooth stone, the imprint

of a grasping hand. Here, a smear of blood. Always

 

welcome in the dawn, hallucination, or the making of things

 

untrue true. Familiar places under new skies. If we

do not recognize the stars, we will, at least, know

 

this land. Though the night changes, 

 

for a thousand years or two,

we will know these spaces to be true.

Divyasri Krishnan is a sixteen-year-old poet who has been writing since she could properly hold a pen. Currently, she has self-published a small poetry book called "paper crowns and paper queens" and has been the recipient of two Regional Gold Key awards through the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. Her writing inspirations span centuries, including T.S Eliot, Philip Pullman, and the modern boykeats. When she is not writing or thinking about writing, she is breaking her back over standardized testing or running. Her thoughts and ramblings can be found @spilledhoney on Instagram.

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