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Imagined Memory

The girl sits at the desk, staring. Numbers – in columns, in rows, in pie charts. She overhears talk. Smart, assertive people, full of ideas and plans, talking each other down, talking themselves up. In her mind she hears music. That is the door. And then she is there, here – feeling the stones under her feet, hearing the hundred bells break like soft summer waves. The silk wrapped tight, yet capable of caress. The sun-warmed air smells like dust, like love. She hears the music, a quiet raga echoing through the deserted temple columns on this quiet summer day. Opens her eyes and sees her Lord, resplendent and smiles. She says: Play my Lord and I will dance. Together we stamp the universe into being. See how my hands gestures mudras, scattering constellations. The drum is the heartbeat flung into space. Your voice sings, commands, and I follow.

We have no need of others Lord, you and I. My life is with you here, among the temple walls, behind curtains of flowers. My sustenance is your voice, the sight of sunlight on your skin. We cling to each other and form a river, flowing under sun and starlight. Sovereign.


Shehnaz Kahn lives in California and writes things that persistently buzz around her head. She loves magical realism. 

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