6 hours ago

I never knew her
She died a few years after I was born

The last full blood
My great great grandmother
Named Grace but everyone called her Gracie

I have a picture of her as a child
Big brown legs crossed on a bear skin rug
Black hair with sharp bangs
In rotted sepia

Whenever I eat fry bread
I think of her
Or when I see autumn colored corn
Growing in long stalks
Watch documentaries on television
About the plight of the Cherokee
Each year there is a pow wow
And I am reminded

That I don’t know anything
About what it means to be Native American
The last one of my ancestors died
A very long time ago and never got the chance
To teach me how to speak Tsalagi
I have a pale face
It’s been washed out over the generations

I used to have a recurrent dream as a kid
That a man wearing a wolf head
Would have me come sit with him by the fire
And he'd tell me the future
I kept a dream catcher above my bed
He must have been a Shaman
Said head east to Tennessee

Maybe deep in our bones
The elders live on
I sure would like that to be the case
And my great great someone or other
Is responsible for more
Than my cheekbones and thick shins
That they gave more than
This nose

It’s the principle of the thing

To know why I need to be barefoot
To paint lines on my skin in clay
To run through the woods
To look up at the sky
With the moon on back
And bare my teeth
Keep close to the earth

To know why I cry
When I see them dance
In circles
Or why I pick up every feather
That I find in the dirt
And stick it behind my ear

So that I remember

What has been lost

Sukanya Sinha Roy
Sukanya Sinha Roy
16 hours ago

We lasso ropes to clouds

of our dreams

and walk on a tightrope of stars.

Should we lose our foothold now

we would not fall.

For gravity doesn't pull

her ropes of fantasy in space.

Nobody would hear our screams

for vacuum is wordless,

mute and deaf.

We wouldn't even know

that we've lost our dream.

We would just silently

float away from each other

and deconstruct into obscurity.

Sukanya Sinha Roy
Sukanya Sinha Roy
17 hours ago

I will be your walking shoes

But never your crutch

Wear me out marching the miles you trudge

Tie my laces to the stars you strive to touch

You open your palms
and the milky deluge pours
through your fingers
from your released reservoir.
A sweet, ravaging cascade descends
on my skull, shattering it to bits
of nucleated thought-atoms.
The earth rains stars on the sky.
The sky sprouts green shoots of hope.
Pollen of life and contemplation.
Emerald green forests
speed through a lemon yellow sun.
I swallow sounds of wonder
Inhale the aroma of your questions
and spit out tectonics of half-baked answers
Where are we? Why are we?
Hold on firmly to my wrist, please
I feel the gravity of another beyond
tugging at spacesuits of our core

They dressed me bride, patterned my palms

Held them still, till the reds were dried and lain

You came by, smiled and bent me back

My colours are all smudged,
in ecstatic screams of our pleasured bloodstain.


Today I was kissed as never before,

in the spray and the foam of the sea

Your lips brushed the salt of tears from mine

You drank me whole, you sailed into me

We are but ghosts of our rambling, unquenched love

Hovering hopefully where we've roamed before

You're looking for your headstone in my jasmine garden

I'm floating with my empty bowl , before your cellophane door

To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment