A girl was touched
A girl was touched it sent ripples across my Sunday newspaper an aunt in the next building checked
her teenaged neighbor’s room to see if she was with a boy my cereal is tinged with sorrow I wake up
and write yet another poem with no ending my father throws a cloak around me that hides me from
men in a flourish I go out and the cloak is a transparent veil as a man screeches a verse for my legs my
small chest does not make me half a woman I am liked more when I pretend to be invisible I am liked
more when I don’t exist a girl is loved when her feet are stapled to the floor my friend was told to not
show her pride and her hair my jaws spill out a little more than they should An uncle kisses me in
front of my parents I remember it seven years hence I was touched and I didn’t like it I swallow my
letters until they’re digested and forgotten and bind my fingers with a false promise I smile until the
sides of my mouth are cracked like my frail arrogance Are you a man, my grandmother asks me Anju
looks like a man when she stands sideways, someone chuckles a boy tells me that I’m pretty and I’d like
to believe him but I can’t I can’t I can’t
her teenaged neighbor’s room to see if she was with a boy my cereal is tinged with sorrow I wake up
and write yet another poem with no ending my father throws a cloak around me that hides me from
men in a flourish I go out and the cloak is a transparent veil as a man screeches a verse for my legs my
small chest does not make me half a woman I am liked more when I pretend to be invisible I am liked
more when I don’t exist a girl is loved when her feet are stapled to the floor my friend was told to not
show her pride and her hair my jaws spill out a little more than they should An uncle kisses me in
front of my parents I remember it seven years hence I was touched and I didn’t like it I swallow my
letters until they’re digested and forgotten and bind my fingers with a false promise I smile until the
sides of my mouth are cracked like my frail arrogance Are you a man, my grandmother asks me Anju
looks like a man when she stands sideways, someone chuckles a boy tells me that I’m pretty and I’d like
to believe him but I can’t I can’t I can’t
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Anjali Bhavan is an engineering undergrad. Her work has appeared/is forthcoming in Speaking Tree (a weekend supplement of The Times of India), Porridge Magazine, Coldnoon International Journal, Allegro Poetry Review, Sooth Swarm Journal and Cafe Dissensus Everyday among others. She currently writes according to her moods, and looks forward to oddball experiences.
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