Anchor in the half-light, it’s a fact
I sometimes cry. But do not pity these tears;
they are not helpless, they are the
condensation of a gathering ache. Everything
crystallized: the dampness speaking
to underlying rot, moments when the system
betrays its decaying structure, crumbling
marble beneath sturdy façade. The futility of
pulling weeds, of brushing on a fresh coat
of paint. Let me weep instead into the cracks
as a last attempt to raise the tide: ruination
is rooted in sorrow & our eyes are fixed on the
society of a hundred years ago, maybe even
a thousand, heralding past glory as if a penance
for present sins. & here we still are, never
making the right confessions. The darkest space
not clandestine enough to reveal those secrets
centuries have been summoned to hide: I need a
flashlight instead of this history, I need my
saltwater tears. I need the castles we will build
from the scattered grains left behind.

By Nina Sudhakar 


Nina Sudhakar is a writer, lawyer and first-generation American. Her work is forthcoming or has appeared in Litro, Arcturus and Miracle Monocle; for more, please see

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