Jesus lay between my breasts on my 18ct cross. My future husband fell in love with Jesus before he fell in love with me, but I married him, anyway.
I always wanted to marry a man like my father. Someone who would protect me when screen doors unhinged from their wooden frame and flew across our farm. A man who ran toward flames in January and February and returned home with singed hair and face covered in soot. A man who sat still, silent, letting my voice take center stage when I needed to be heard.
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Barely standing, he pushes people over
with harsh words soaked in a menacing tone
that occasionally trembles when a bit of phlegm
catches in his throat.
You better believe in Jesus when he corners you,
or be ready to.
You better be ready to give him your full attention,
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or his feeble voice will boom, and his face will redden
as it moves closer to yours.
Hiya Mukherjee was born and brought up in Kolkata. She writes mostly in her mother tongue Bengali. Her work has appeared in Plato’s Caves Online and Friday Flash Fiction. She co-edits a bilingual and bimonthly blogzine called ‘Agony Opera‘. How to Hover Over a Hackneyed and Hassle-free Armageddon in Scandinavia The Lumerian Institute for Humphrey […]
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This is the second in a series of three installments for Visitant featuring collaborative works from poet Dennis R. Kolakowski and artists Bruce Pipman and Charles W. “Bud” Gibbons, III (future installment). Biographies and back story below. All Love is Equal in Memory The clouds have been innocent since before slavery since before anyone had any reason to be nailed to […]
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On a beautiful August evening, David and I took a walk around Mount Tabor before bed. The city lights were muting the sky with a pale tangerine glow and it wasn’t quite dark enough yet to view the Perseids, which everyone was there for. Couples were out strolling in hand-holding pairs, while giggling duets echoed […]
Read more "How To Watch The Stars Fall"