Raniya Chowdhury

Tenderfoot Foragery — a diptych

Time has

a habit of symmetry. In that

once when I was just a little girl who

plucked feathers from all her allouettes.
Flanked by two friends, we simmered

our brown skin browner yet, our Mamas

getting madder. Massiveness existed

in everything, but the world was still

banked by riverbeds / two dusty

streets. We went on journeys

across gridded greens until harvest

season. With it came a chill that caught

ghosts in transit. With it came the discovery

of a fractal tree, parcels of sour green apples

behind the community mailbox. Held plumb

by two pink-helmeted girls, I captured a

dozen jeweled fruit. We went home

with the spoils. Washed, cut, bit,

Mamas fretting on

scraped knees.

This Could Be Anywhere in the World

The apocalypse is tomorrow, at least according to this

Evangelical church, but tonight we lean against this

brick wall and wait to file into the entrance of this

hot-mouthed house where the band will make this

the day we mosh our meatless bodies sore. I know this

will hurt much more in the morning, but I live for this

push pit of people, apostate to all except this

noise. Forget the cold Monday morning—this

crowd can carry that weight. After the show we flock this

too-narrow subway and become too loud for this

cygneous night, our lashing tongues fossilizing this

midnight commuter shuttling back home among this

murmuration of sweat-sheened starlings; pricked with this

DIY stick-n-poke needle, coruscating piercings on this

too young face, clouded with bruises. Turning purple on this

disenchantment with a sketched skyline. We spit on this

city’s suit jacket, dry-cleaned by pigs with human soap. This

raffish rebellion is hungry for the heavy meal of this

marrow-carving breakdown, buzzing all the atoms, this

crackle of leather and our crusting patch pants, this

ironically worn crucifix with a nail-studded dog collar, this

rebar-stiff haircut sculpted by your favorite razor, this

eyeliner dragged to the temples and across wet lips, this

anthem against everything we are expected to be. But this

is still my mother’s home. So, tomorrow, we rally. This

time she left the porch light on. Don’t you dare forget: this

bitterness for all the things this

place has become is because of this

hope for all the things this

place could be.

Ouroboros is

eating itself. In that I’m just

a little lady who crushes all her

pen nibs onto paper, watching ink

curdle. Flanked by two differentsame

friends, toasted crispy, calling Mamas,

saying “see you at home soon.” Turns out,

the massiveness only grows—the observable

universe metastasizing out and away from us,

leaving us lonelier and waning in the crowds

of campus bodies. The moon is bloody and

ripe for eating. With it come the sour green

apples, for us. Boosted boots on two cupped,

never-trembling palms. Opened up and waiting

for apples to drop, stoking a feeling nameless

in poetry. I could not / cannot ride a bike;

limbs too weak. But I still keep up with

two un-helmeted girls. Spit out

any seeds. Always leaving

the core.