Salonee Verma (16)
London’s Calling For Its Victims Again
I sat on the pull-out sofa, starched
blankets coiled up around my bare-back,
listening to the yawning sounds of the morning.
The air was still thick with the noise of the sad
intoxicated youth stumbling around out of
the pub next door, but the curtain was still
spread slightly open so I could see the
shrapnel ripping a rainbow banner in
the textiles shop across from me. I think
my mother did that on purpose, but
I will never know, not really, unless I ask her
if she wanted me to ache, which she'll deny.
Soho cradles me like an austere antecedent to a
myriad of histories of rioting for what’s mine.
And I was alone in a country that wasn't mine,
but it felt like I was finally alive, the chill of the
wind searing my cheeks, the Greek cafe
starting up their latest batch of bread. I inhaled
and smiled in the almost-dark, because while
this was not my home and never would be,
I would not mind if I dissolved into the bustle of a city
that has touched both my implicit and
explicit homes so deeply, entwined soundly into the
mingling sounds of Polari & Hindi & English.
Salonee Verma is an Indian-American writer and the co-founder of antinarrative, a collaborative zine. Her work is published or is forthcoming in Backslash Lit, Pollux Journal, zindabad zine, Dishsoap Quarterly, and more. She has been recognized in the Scholastic Arts & Writing Awards. Find her online at saloneeverma.carrd.com.
London’s Calling For Its Victims Again
I sat on the pull-out sofa, starched
blankets coiled up around my bare-back,
listening to the yawning sounds of the morning.
The air was still thick with the noise of the sad
intoxicated youth stumbling around out of
the pub next door, but the curtain was still
spread slightly open so I could see the
shrapnel ripping a rainbow banner in
the textiles shop across from me. I think
my mother did that on purpose, but
I will never know, not really, unless I ask her
if she wanted me to ache, which she'll deny.
Soho cradles me like an austere antecedent to a
myriad of histories of rioting for what’s mine.
And I was alone in a country that wasn't mine,
but it felt like I was finally alive, the chill of the
wind searing my cheeks, the Greek cafe
starting up their latest batch of bread. I inhaled
and smiled in the almost-dark, because while
this was not my home and never would be,
I would not mind if I dissolved into the bustle of a city
that has touched both my implicit and
explicit homes so deeply, entwined soundly into the
mingling sounds of Polari & Hindi & English.
Salonee Verma is an Indian-American writer and the co-founder of antinarrative, a collaborative zine. Her work is published or is forthcoming in Backslash Lit, Pollux Journal, zindabad zine, Dishsoap Quarterly, and more. She has been recognized in the Scholastic Arts & Writing Awards. Find her online at saloneeverma.carrd.com.
