Harvest
The pit has been doing well. Aided by favourable weather conditions. The soil is well nourished. Sweat rain has been good this year. It has been warmer than usual and very good for armpits world over. We inspected the pits recently. All is in order. Small nubbins of baby arms are pushing their heads from the loam. We are expecting a bumper crop, just like last year. It was glorious. There were arms everywhere. Long arms. Short arms. Thick arms. Thin arms. They were excellent. They dangled from armpits like octopi walking on air.
Hole
I have been trying to fill a hole. I have been trying to fill it since I was a baby. At first it was the size of my belly button, small, manageable, fillable, a drop of water was enough. Over time it grew, became the size of my liver, then my kidney, and then my uterus. It grew bigger as if something was growing inside it. Not a baby. But it could easily fit a baby at first, then it could fit two and then a whole cricket team. And now two cricket teams are inside the hole. They have carved a pitch and a T20 game is on. They were feeling lonely, so they invited spectators. The spectators are in there as well. Inside the hole that is inside me that I have been trying to fill since I was a baby, perhaps since I was a baby living inside another hole or since I was an egg inside that baby which was inside another hole. Someone has hit a six, the ball is flying across the sky, the spectators are hooting & clapping, it is loud, really loud inside the hole, one of the spectators was carrying fireworks and lit those up, there are sparks in the sky now, making a hole in the hole that is inside me.
A Good Research Candidate
After Rikki Ducornet
He stole my gut on Monday. By way of breast, through oesophagus, he went in and pulled it out. He rushed home with it, dunked it in formaldehyde, and stored it in a glass jar. Like a little boy who has captured a butterfly. He watched as the gut writhed and fluttered. Trembled and stuttered in the jar. On the weekend, he took it to the central gut laboratory. It was a huge glass building, where everyone stored their guts. He liked to keep the sample with him for a while before submitting it. He also liked to visit all the samples he had previously collected. He gave my gut to the receptionist with details, age: 11, location: near Rajesh Khanna Garden. The receptionist made a new file for it. They labelled it gut number 1045 and placed on the shelf next to gut number 1036 from Pali Hill. He made his rounds, met gut numbers 1021, aged: 31, location: near Madras Cafe. Gut number 1003, aged: 55, near: Regal Cinema & gut number 999, age: location: near Prabhadevi station. He thought he is such a good research candidate, bringing in a lot of samples. His chest bloated with pride.
Fire
My tongue is on fire. The fire brigade is late. The men were fucking in the yard. They had to straighten up, put on their uniforms, jump in the car, and zoom past Bombay. Dodging potholes and cursing the BMC, their siren wailing. They are rushing towards me, all muscle and meat. Meanwhile my tongue, is burning, is tingling, is turning in a tandoor. I pierce words on to a spoke, chumma, blowjob, suck, lund. Hang them over my tongue. They are cooking now, I poke the coals once in a while, fan the fire, wait for the perfect juicy word tikka to appear. The men are still on their way. Bombay is a large city; the potholes are very many. They bump along, I stand with my tongue out, waiting for them to wash away my sins.
Yashasvi Vachhani is a poet, editor, curator and educator. Her poems have been published in Singapore Unbound, SWWIM Miami, Of Brave Hearts and Dry Tongues and Yearbook of Indian Poetry. She is a co-founder of The Osmosis Poetry Prize and the founding editor of Tiffinbox Review.