Trivarna Hariharan
ALCHEMY
Memory un- wavering as water
swerved by a fish’s tail.
An ivory door stamped by
a deer’s dead horns.
In whose rooms,
every young maiden whorls
into a mermaid.
So when I arose in
a necklace of
blue-green algae,
no one recognized me
save for the ghosts
I had refused to become.
Now for days & days,
I spend tickling the smallest things––
a grass-beam ballooned with
rain enough to slit it
into speech.