i have gathered bits of skin and memory
and have packed myself in Tupperware
to a city whose name only birds have heard
at my hometown
in cities, of all the pieces that we dare to
call our own, some are tossed at gutters
when no one's watching—
and when ants forage on the plump
oranges we sucked dry—
we call them sinners
for once, they are mute, and so small
even infants can squish them
in cities, we change ourselves
like display lights at bars
hanging out the ones we think
the neighbours would like best
i, for instance, have worn so many
people and places on my collars,
i feel like a motley city spread open
but on nights when stars go out,
the breeze comes to a standstill, and
there is no more noise left to wear—
i open myself under streetlights,
and come out strangely empty.
Ritoshree Chatterjee hails from India and is pursuing her undergraduate degree in English literature. She writes in order to attain clarity—or the approximations of it. Her work has appeared in Café Dissensus (Issue 60), Madras Courier, The Punch Magazine (The Poetry Issue 2022), Outlook, LiveWire, The Chakkar, and the Joao Roque Review among others.
Greta McGee (she/her) is a Black American-Italian born and raised in New York City. Her multi-disciplinary creative works report on the body, spirit, and mind as they work together. She is a 2021 graduate of Sarah Lawrence College. Greta recently published her first work of fiction in Scoundrel Time.