The radio hums in sicken, in solemn
Of skin brushed.
The downtown hisses in glory
Festered glass.

The flower is plucked,
Nonchalant feet propped up.
Taffy chewed pale, torn tops
Are billboards draping Times Square.
Loose form, the air hippies breathe
Covers the static manifesting
In her throat, a hard swallow.

She has been to this place
Underground lights traced by lovers
Chokers softening 
Necks, smoke a puff.
Waves of shadow underneath
Her lips weren’t accustomed to bitter fruit.

The radio mumbles, in spills, in smothers
Of palms predicting lines
Into the future.
A promise, a revolution opening
As she dissected lyrics at thirteen
And breathed a Cosmopolitan reality,

Glances came in a spoonful.
Touch spilt in the edges.
Color and cloth
Were textures felt in a 60s dream.
She blasts the radio,
In all madness, all mourning.

Malvika (17) believes that crafting words requires patience. The night is her refuge and poetry is one avenue to spill her thoughts. She is part of her schoolís debate team and is an apt reader of The New York Times.

Malvika Manoj