by Himali Singh Soin
You drive
From east to west
In a small red car with
Nothing but a spoon in your pocket
Into whose mirror you scour the corn
Expanses; from whose slick surface you scoop up a
Cherry and
Nibble on the
Tops of a ghostly cake
You take accidental bites of
The sky, or the earth depending on the
Way you look at it. As you munch away your spoon
Grows grows
The earth and the
Sky slide slip into a
Silver centrifuge and you, alas,
Miniaturized, reach for the clouds which
Drown in the shallow concave spoon puddle. Plus, with
The cake
Long gone, the cherry
In your mouth is not so
Red cold and so sweet anymore.
You leave the spoon behind upturned, the sky
And the earth bend grow smile: chuckling follies
Of travel, palindromes of their previous selves.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Himali Singh Soin is a New Delhi based writer of fiction, poetry, art, culture and ideas with a degree in English Literature and the Theatre Arts from Middlebury College in Robert Frost Country. She likes drawing rickshaws, traveling to the source, connecting dots, plotting revolutions and imagining alternative realities full of the colour orange and spiral staircases and love.
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