There is no water if i’m on water

I am put away impulsively
like the totems on a modern alter 
on a parched, sweltering heath–suspended in the air 
in quiet refusal, I eat the apple with my broken teeth.
Burnt like liquor, my hand in a fish bowl,
I hang like fruit basking in the afternoon gold,
sprawling redemption, in hindsight, seeks 
to remarry my spent head
and I am sent into a maddening spiral 
of easy forgiveness; I itch to scald like rocks on a receding moonscape.
I age like delicate gossamer that's tightly knitted,
yet stripped bare like the dearth of gentle love–
sleeping to survive the fever dreams.
There is no water if I am on water, 
so I spade the sombre earth, in search of softness,
oaring in the pool of decoys in a coupe.
I have turned so foreign; I cannot reconnect
the irregularities warped on the mirror,
and the thinning shaft of daylight beneath the skin of my feet. 

Snata Basu is an aspiring poet from Dhaka, Bangladesh. Her work mostly centers on passionate, personal bindings. She is currently pursuing Bachelor of Arts in English Literature at North South University.