I was not part of my home
that lurks
somewhere around the corners of
flowing towards new visitors.
I was not part of my home, never invited for any of the marriages
when celebrating words.
Home never speaks in the language I understand.
It tries yet to sink me in, a mirror to swan island.
Traveling around the river, I enclose its associations.
Windowseat, was a craze in childhood though,
smelly of dried fish, vomiting, high pitch popcorn transactions, lemon soda gas, watery and I hate it
now the driver sips tea, conductor repeats my home’s village, I make out from his words, he is tired of frogs calling his name in that night’s susurrus lanes.

In a conference, the topic of the evening was on food politics.
I spoke for a while, needed some rest to listen others.
We were into cappuccino correcting punctuations in a recipe book.
Mississippi river plays tampura
I defended my co-presenters that it was hindolam
Cooing siroccos
Chandrakauns perhaps.

A part of that evening ports us morning. Holding flags,
freedom fighters and flood victims singing patriotic songs.
But it was evening that confuses as glossy gold of Koneru centre, wearing sunlight sarees preserved for
Kuchipudi dance.

Never part of a day or a night, confused
Chandrakantha flowers
Hungry of four o’clock tea and milk biscuits, dripping
on panchakalyani hunched at half footed

Everyday ramgoli.

We have perhaps reached Machilipatnam. Pretty unsure about its name in Persian origin.
Birds in Kolleru lake are used to those proverbs on making home like the lake.
The new library would have kept books about Dutch and French traders at its reader’s drawing tables, unopened.
The city happens with hill ranges, temple bells,
Novelists rivaling about their female characters.
I didn’t change my name, here and there same way rephrasing Freudian dreams.
At times found Manginapudi memories in the albums I carried along.
The bus crosses some sugar factories, glimpsing Kondapalli toys.
There was a research on kalamkari art, I read some years ago, researcher’s name was somewhat familiar.
Many are sleeping, I can hear well those who talk about a theater for remake films.
Evening is left far away, I feel sodium citrate in my mouth,
Inhaling, the scattered fume of someone else’s cigarette.
I am alone still, home may open its doors.




Jyothsnaphanija is a PhD research scholar in English literature at EFL University, Hyderabad, India. Her poetry has appeared in IthacaLit, Melusine, The Nervous Breakdown, Muddy River Poetry Review, Northeast Review, Coldnoon, American Diversity Report, Counterpunch and others.