I am saying them now. Of how smoothly you slipped inside the new nest of soft flesh and phantom bone on picking you up. I know, I know: I should have waited for your mother to return, I should have known that you were trying to fly, I should have known, I should have known- But it was a blue winter morning, the kind that postcards make their living out of, the air smelt unbearably sweet, and I needed to rescue someone other than myself. Carrying you in that makeshift womb, I placed you in light, turning you over from flesh warmth to stone cold. And then I walked away, never to look back. I remember still the softness of your black down, your trembling dissipating into a folded sleep. In my saviour hopes, you flew again. You tasted sky currents and cloud-pillowed your head when you were too tired to fly any more. And your feathers, unimaginably soft still, would shelter and birth life too. I think the above because this I cannot and will not consider: you marooned inside that circle of light, wondering if this was it, then, your first and last flight.
About the Author:
Priyanka Sacheti is a writer and poet based in Bangalore, India. She grew up in Sultanate of Oman and has previously lived in the United Kingdom and the United States. She has been published in many publications with a special focus on art, gender, diaspora, and identity. Her literary work has appeared in Barren, The Cabinet of Heed, Popshot, The Lunchticket, and Jaggery Lit as well as various anthologies. She’s currently working on a poetry and short story collection. She can be found as @atlasofallthatisee on Instagram and @priyankasacheti on Twitter.
