Two Lies and a Truth by Taruni Tangirala
i slurp on the vanity of superior
beings in the lounge of contemplation;
a trifold of mirrors reflects three
different aspersions back at me.
i see a centaur;
dressed in battle gear and a dunce cap,
ready to run away as soon as the battle
horn sounds. next, i see a telly-tubby
festooned with participation medals and
an eye, exactly one eye, for shiny things.
last, i see a simple silhouette of myself.
nothing’s there except for a facetious
void; a black hole replete with black dust.
suddenly, a vine grows out of the void and
ivy grows all over the mirrors like ants on
a cookie crumb. succumbing to the pressure,
the glass splinters into a mosaic, and a
pastiche of my former self glowers at me
with the rage of a bull shark. then, her
refulgent eyes twinkle like the millions of
nocturnal suns that put us to sleep every night.
no, not twinkling;
she winked at me
such that no one else could see.
A Kid and Some Global Warming by Taruni Tangirala
you are mount everest and
i’m a molehill. look me down
like how the sun thrusts its
rays onto the uneven topsoil,
but you’ll never blind me.
in a picturesque watercolor painting,
you’re the one who sullies the top half;
blue skies replaced with gray air. i
giggle, and a dulcet sound escapes
from my larynx; as if gray could blind
me; blind anyone. i see you everywhere
but you can’t see me; you have constructed
your own demise in steel traps made of
carbon. thanks for entertaining the kids,
mommy says. next please, she says,
not waiting for your puny gray conscience to protest.
the silvery crescent in the night
sky is so close; i grab it and tug.
the handle reveals a whole world
obfuscated by the pollution of this one.
i enter through the threshold;
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