algor mortis – Diya Anantharaman

December 3, 2025

my cremated fantasy explored rituals of the in-between,
scattered
among the temporalities of bodyhood where I would limbo,
sliding just under the pole but coming out unclean, bent, and blistered
anyway
there is a warm drum of blood I carry with me through every turn
in this life, always lurching towards the doorway, overripe insides
spilling
like a split fig, through the divine vacillation between sleep and blue
wakefulness, I could shed my skin in heaps and step out of the room to
contemplate
burial versus burn, passing clipped locks of hair to my lovers
along the way, I could embalm this in my beating drum, in
homeostasis