by Manjari Thakur

It grows out of boxes

And little things

Like the way he looked at me

When I was sleepless

In winter mornings

Or when I burned down

The milk to my bone

And the coffee,

Turned black

In hesitation

That was the first time my tongue tasted


I put three whole sugar cubes

And let it rest for life

And so it grew

Out of the jar, and the boxes

And the curtains

Till one day

It covered almost

Half of my ribcage.

That day it pained

A foggy pain

The kind you don’t anticipate

And I remember trying to make sense

Out of boxes.

Manjari Thakur is currently an MPhil research scholar at Jadavpur University, India. She has completed her Masters in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, India. Her research interests lie in trauma studies, prison literature, protest literature and politics of violence in the Indian subcontinent. Apart from research, she occasionally enjoys writing a poem or two.