Hotel Room, Altitude Sickness
The bereaved eventually make their way to acceptance. That summit, what is it?
What is it but the sure-footed strut of the ibex, atop the quelling silence at the tallest crest.
Your gaze can glance off what the wind did last night. It broke my sleep as it shattered the window’s glass.
Yes, I am here.
Yes, to throw a corpse
over this mountain.
What is youth unless tarnished by heartache. The girl weeping into her phone in the middle of the market. Her puan in place, perfect. Not a hair where it should not be. To be brazen, to throw caution to the wind, to say without words, look at my despair, is this courage or audacity? Do you know? Do you have either? A tourist bus goes by, a hand drawing the curtain in a window.
Medha Singh is a poet, editor and translator from Delhi. She took her M.A. from Jawaharlal Nehru University (Delhi) and Sciences Po (Paris). Her maiden book—Ecdysis (2017)—is out through Poetrywala, Mumbai. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in 3:AM Magazine, Stag Hill, Berfrois, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, The Charles River Journal, Coldnoon, The Bangalore Review, Indian Quarterly, The Bombay Literary Magazine, the Indian Cultural Forum, Sangam and Guftugu among others. She has bylines in The Hindu, The Wire and Youth Ki Awaz among other places. She currently works as a researcher for The Raza Foundation and her second book is forthcoming.