‘Food’. ‘Pickle’. ‘Chalk’. For some reason that
can be attributed to hunger of various kinds, maybe,

Space Gulliver finds these words floating before her.
She isn’t sure where they came from, whether their arrival

will be followed by the real things, food, pickle, and chalk.
She could use a little food, something to see her through

another night. She always liked picking out the garlic
from the pickle. Now, in a yahooland where no one

has heard of the Bermuda Triangle, she feels all tastes
are disappearing. Bitter gourd, sweet lime, sour plantain.

Variables, constants. Space Gulliver is looking for a line,
a chalk mountain, a little white sign on a black, black slate

Sampurna Chattarji

Pinned to the ground that is her shadow
By a thousand Lilliputian laughs.

Nothing can touch her.

Sing a melody that will untangle
The dark cloud of her hair.

Is this the box they will bury me in?
Her day has been rigid, and square.

Neither bone nor blood.

What she longs for is
The heart of a helium circle.

She sees patterns everywhere.

Sampurna Chattarji