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
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.