The Architecture of a Straight Spine
Three poems by Aardhra Chandran
The Architecture of a Straight Spine / Sulochana
survivors sit by the ash-pits
scraping horse-fat from the grooves of their spears
flies gather on the leather of their boots
she enters without the courtesy of banners
walking with the sparse economy of a plumb-line
they waited for her knees to hit the gravel
for the thin scream that flatters the conqueror
she does not look at the blades
she stands before the seven generals
her shadow does not tremble on their tents
give me the severed head
keep the blood on your grass
it is your only currency
but return him
so the earth can close its mouth
the captains do not move
their fingers stiff on the pommels
suddenly aware of the useless weight of their armor
she does not blink
they look down at their own hands
waiting for her to break
a single fly moves along the rim of a shield
*In the Ramayana tradition, Sulochana is the daughter of the serpent king Sheshanaga and the wife of Ravana’s son, Indrajit. Following her husband's decapitation in battle, she walks alone into the enemy camp to reclaim his severed head.
The Token System
Dealer’s ledger book split down the spine.
Tuesday noon, white lime dust eating the skin raw.
Optical sensor flashing red. Thumbprint completely gone.
Scrub the palm with coconut husk, he says, spitting betel juice.
Kerosene reek on wet stone floors, five kilos shifting inside the jute.
Red digital digits flickering on a hanging scale.
New Delhi silent, locked inside the wire mesh box.
Iron grille shutting out the daylight.
One crow pecking at a loose ragi grain on the step.
Signature slip wet with green ink, school bell thin across cracked clay.
Shoulder bone locked beneath the ration weight.
Identity card stuck to a sweat-stained vest.
Rusted padlock hanging from the frame side.
The state demands a mark the stone has already stolen.
Overtime Shift
Ninety ticks a minute on the moving conveyor belt.
Green copper smoke rising from the soldering iron barrel.
A clipboard hanging by the leaking water tank.
Four minutes allowed for the concrete bathroom stall.
AC leakage dripping onto plastic components.
Three train changes back to the native well.
Hostel air smelling of machine oil and damp cotton.
Eight heads sharing the rusted iron cots.
Four thousand rupees sent home with a single screen tap.
Spectacles bought for an old man’s fading eyes.
Siren screaming at six through the morning fog.
Tumbler glass of chaya burning the fingers raw.
Handbag open for the chip-check security guard.
Grey chemical foam thick in the open municipal ditch.
Sky like a rubbed-out copper piece.
A strip of pills in the apron pouch.
Conveyor rhythm clicking inside the skull long after dark.
Aardhra Chandran is a poet from Kerala, India. Her work has appeared in Eunoia Review, The Punch Magazine, Borderless Journal, and Active Muse, among others. She writes image-driven poetry exploring memory, landscape, and sensory experience.
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