The First and Last of Everything on the Planet
Ishani Agrawal
​
​The heavens did not part on that very first day;
God did not descend, resting weary feet after six days of crafting.
There was no Eden— there wasn’t a glorious garden with
apple trees and snakes and milky paradise.
There was no shade for the First of Men and Women,
that’s just a myth—a convoluted nightmare recorded with the
ink of sweet lies.
The Earth was not a magical sanctum on that very first day;
the oceans did not swell, islands never danced. What was there to celebrate?
On the very first day, the stars did not smile
They wept and cried; I saw them with my own eyes. Their tears dripped
to the ground, and their bodies swayed.
Lots of them flickered, then fell to a fiery death
out of grief, I suppose. We didn’t hold funerals.
There was in fact a genesis for light and dark
but even from the start, from that very first day
The light was already limp, the dark was dominating
with creeping coils of cobwebs and cockroaches.
There was never a sanctuary for life that could be
Ruined by curiosity and the Need to Know; Creation had already done that.
There was already Disease, War, Hatred, Envy, Decay: my sisters,
they were the ones to borne the Earth and groom the Sky and paint
the world with a cadaver-colored palette.
I was there too, of course, the last of the sisters to emerge from my
cavernous underground abode where I prepared for
an endless line of tenants: souls with empty eyes. They haven’t come yet, but soon.
The First of Men and Women arose on that day too;
his heart was intertwined with Guilt,
her body was a gallery of green and purple scars.
The second day can only be better.
the last might even be
Perfect.
My Personal Prison
Ishani Agrawal
​
There is constant wailing at night
from outside my door and window. Always
starting as a whimper and a sniffle
then shrieking, twisting into hundreds of voices
that haunts me, dusk to dawn.
A brief peek behind the blinds: only the creeping tendrils of the moon.
Close the blinds – I am blind – can’t see through the noise.
Twist the handle, open the door: only shadows in my vision.
Close the door, but the shadows come in, what have I done?
Some voices are trampled as they run from the shadows
the shadows that are my memories.
trembling, afraid, my voice joins the others.
What did I do?
Right now, just apologize, pay up my debts.
Apology first, then make the mistake.
The wailing settles down, I am forgiven, at least for now
but once determined Guilty, forever a criminal,
no more trial or defense, just straight to a phantasmic prison,
the walls and bars: a cage I designed.
Live smothered in my cell now,
my sinewy prison that hates its own beating heart, and stay there
even when the crime is stuck on the edges of Inevitable.
​
Petals I Envy
Ishani Agrawal
​
The tulips are whispering again.
I heard their faint voices yesterday through my
cracking window. They spoke
that way on purpose, I think
even though a shout is so much easier.
These tulips should be broken.
I thought they were when I saw them for the first time
in the garden all those years ago, with their folds and severed pieces.
Maybe I had wished they were broken too
so I wouldn’t be the only one who hobbled along with legs sewn on and fingers taped to my hand:
A monster with a body built from bits of scraps; a demon of the most disgusting design.
I haven’t watered them, haven’t tended to them,
no weeding or fertilizing or protection from the cold.
I waited to watch them die, watch them wilt so
we could be the
same
​
yet somehow the tulips are—somehow they're healing. I can hear their calls
getting louder, they jeer repulsive attempts at apology.
Their crimson blood is no longer pooling at their base but is
flourishing upwards, lifted on an angel's wings
while I remain at the bottom of my burning pit.
Where's my savior with golden wings and a gleaming halo?
​
The tulips gathered their strength; they can stand once more.
They can dance in my garden. They can feel
safe outside my crumbling house.
​
Nevertheless, I woke up this morning needing to reattach my
two lips in the mirror.
​
​
Author bio: Ishani Agrawal is a 15-year-old from the DC area. An avid writer of poetry, she has recently begun exploring the art of short stories and flash fiction. She is the co-editor of her school's international teen publication, the Fountain Pen, and has been gaining more editorial experience through her work for Polyphony Lit. In her free time, she enjoys watching The Big Bang Theory, reading Margaret Atwood, and spending time with her dog.