Sneha Subramanian Kanta 


Cold & Sun

The cold mahogany, cold marble presses dreams
against its smooth exterior when two palms hold
prayers and a rosary.

Silver spoons, forks and knives, spurns out of a
domestic life. On the war front, her husband heaves,
stuck by a bullet.

Sleep is only a pattern of lines drawn within the
unconscious. Under the Pacific's vast sea bed, brown
cargo ships sail.

It is the July 17, year erased in memory. Candles
burn on porches of a church, lit in commemoration
of those away.

Faint yellow evening, dark in its curved voices. Gray
scales of sepia bring birds back to their nests early.
Some afar.

Psalms echo in muffled voices. They are not mourners,
though war they mourn. At home, there is a telegram
in the post.

"I will be home soon."




Faith keeps one bound to life, and fluid to take root and wing. Sneha Subramanian Kanta believes in diversity, cultures, pain, the soft landing of snow on earth, flowers, et cetera. You can write to her on