Aparna holds an MA from Kings College, London, and is a writer,
theatre producer, and award-winning designer. She is a recipient
of the 14th Beullah Rose Poetry Prize by Smartish Pace. She is
featured on the masthead of the Songs of Eretz Poetry Review as a
Frequent Contributor for 2018. A popular Spoken Word poet, she
performs at events across venues in India. Her page poetry has
appeared/is forthcoming in Smartish Pace, Broad River Review,
Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Poetry Breakfast, Songs of Eretz Poetry
, The Visitant, The Same, Leaves of Ink, Brevis, The Paragon
, Califragile, Duane's Poetree, et al. Her first book of poetry
is slated for release in early 2018. She lives with her 4-year-old son
and husband in Pune, India. Find her work on her Facebook Page.


Even evil washes the dishes,
whistles a silly tune,
as hag-seed watches the sun set
over his shoulder.
The spawn of our devils
are not born in nightmares,
whitened hospital rooms suffice.
Fights at the kitchen table,
turn as easily to
fights on the kitchen table-
fists and hurt know no difference, spleen is everything.
Gore and spittle may fly
but a baby's cry will teach you all.
The quotidian exists
just side by side,
unhindered by grander schemes.
Creeping through our fabric,
Un-culled thoughts and
sullied near-plans
birth and form
and are blinked away each second
that we
die to ourselves,
but march closer to the truth.
The truth that comes,
even and unbound and unmaking,
to all-
right or wrong.

For a Survivor

The welts are pain
on repeat,
until they become love.
The reminder of love, at least,
but without grace or humanity,
roughly taking,
like a beasts' first
foray into a village.
Before it finds the chicken coop to
quietly rape,
the mayhem isn't picky,
the slaughter, on sight.
It is that way too, with the welts-
the way they crosshatch your back.
Nothing has bound them,
no choice of tender meat has
drawn their ire.
Bone, tendon, the backs
of new knees are equal flesh.

And now, you find love,
in every groove.
These scarified remains may be your pillories,
-but, they are the edifice
you have built
a life on.

Necessary Deceits

All masks and glamours aside,
potions and philtres consumed,
would I be able to survive?
See through the porous mesh
of my true intentions,
my greed for life,
with a bright stabbing light,
and still be able to sleep at night?
Or would I,
like a turtle on its back,
struggle to upright my views?
Sieve through the pebbles
of my shallow mind-pond,
and hope to find a reprieve
in its un-depths,
for deep diving would be impossible
by then?
Some deceits are necessary,
some half-truths
are a balm.
Some white lies heliograph
pain, reflect it in bite size,
easier to chew.
And when all is flayed,
all guile disinterred
this body of flesh and bone,
what then?
The only truth that
will remain, will come
to me as I rest
an eternal rest, of peace
and acceptance,
and sudden
stunning perception.
Or so I hope.

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