Soul
In the horizontal papercut on my palm,
there’s a small boat.
You can see its hull, half sunk
It neither regresses nor proceeds.
The small boat has small oars,
like small islands observed from space –
like small incisors, the small oars
become sharp as nails.
Because they must strike the water
that surrounds them, when they strike
the waters that surround them,
my dear oars, they strike me.
Arpita Roy
Arpita is a Creative Writing PhD candidate at University of Nevada, Las Vegas, where she is a Managing Editor for Interim. Arpita has received awards from the Bread Loaf Writers Conference, Vermont Studio Center, Kenyon Review and Alan Cheuse International Writers Center. Her work can be found in THRUSH, Cream City Review, Shore Poetry, Couplet Poetry, X-Ray, and Psaltery & Lyre. Arpita is from Kolkata, India. You can find her on social media @arpitaroyy
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