When asked my colour, I say purple,
drawing both laughter and anger like water
from the room. I chisel at skin and quietly
clean the common identity markers they crave.
Body: a house. Culture: where dirt gathers.
I want to forget that I have been known as
this tender machine, open eye aching for love.
I begin to feel like the stone god is cut from
as they rub their skulls on me. Wearing stone
is akin to holding blood in a bowl, raining
all the colours I once was, choking
all the colours I once was. Choking
is akin to holding. Blood in a bowl raining
as they rub their skulls on me. Wearing stone
I begin to feel like the stone. God is cut from
this tender machine, open eye aching. For love,
I want to forget that I have been known as
body, a house, culture, where dirt gathers —
clean the common identity markers they crave
from the room. I chisel at skin and, quietly
drawing both laughter and anger like water,
when asked my colour, I say purple.
Shannan Mann is an Indian-Canadian writer, mother to a two year old daughter, and a full-time student. She has been awarded the Palette Love and Eros Prize, Foster Poetry Prize, and Peatsmoke Summer Contest. She was a finalist for the Rattle Poetry Prize, Pacific Spirit Poetry Prize and Frontier Award for New Poets. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Rattle, Ocotillo Review, Strange Horizons, Humber Literary Review, Deadlands and elsewhere. You can find her at https://linktr.ee/shannanmania