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Gestaltism, Mandira Pattnaik

Today I tap into the day’s remnants like there is no tomorrow. Nothing

is whole of anything, greater than parts, like there is

no soil to shovel into the graves

of my tiny illusions.

I let them be like wounds agape. Last night I ignored your warnings,

instead put those heady mischiefs, presumed or ignored,

as two paintings hung on

winking stars.

What if they come alive and trap me? One was Rossetti’s The Day Dream,

Jane Morris on the bough of a Sycamore

tree, stem of honeysuckle

in her hand, and

the other a blank canvas, for loneliness is what I dread.

Shadowy silences waiting to subsume my

days, in dark perceived dangers.

If I find routine hints

signaling daytime, I’ll pluck your ashen lips,

and release you to wilderness. Finally

you’ll rest in peace, my childhood

ghosts, renting my head.



Mandira Pattnaik's recent poems have appeared in Prime Number Magazine, Not Very Quiet, West Trestle Review, Variant Lit, Feral Poetry, Thimble Lit and Eclectica Magazine. She also writes fiction and essays. Find her on Twitter @MandiraPattnaik.

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