Amulya Mandava

Twyckenham Notes
Issue Sixteen
Summer 2023

Genesis

Breaking through the tree line comes the Historian,
skipping along the far bank of this river, closer

and closer now, announcing that God has sent me a gift: utterance.
At night I close both eyes against the current and

a ruby slides up inside me, its choking red nestling in my
throat, waiting to be spit from my mouth, waiting for me to

prophesy. You were here once, an orange rippling.
Now I have only my resolve in hand.

I turn over, the six-faceted seed
sinking to rest between my shoulder blades.

Here comes a great swimming beast, two-faced,
Janus in the quickening stream. Ready to tow me away.

If I die quiet, I’ll know I’m fulfilling a promise.

First Communion

One season kneeling and a bent nail
has plucked me out.

Remember: stiff as a board, light
as a feather, pulled
from the skin of a bird, mine.

Take, eat.
The matter of life is unyielding—
bitter swallow, now another.

Coax one eye to blink,
then the other.
A hand in your mouth.
Even as a child, I’d known to pray by begging.

AMULYA MANDAVA is a writer residing in Boston, Massachusetts.

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