Anjali Klinder is a shockingly aerodynamic human woman studying Philosophy and English Literature at the University of Edinburgh, with a special interest in the Philosophy of Physics. She has not published any poetry previously, but has had three short stories published in student-led literary journals: the UoE magazine The Inkwell, and the intercollegiate journal The Foundationalist. Anjali is a big fan of feeding pigeons and hitting the minimum word count.

 

Snow and Black Holes

 

and it feels like i’m young again

4 foot 5

snow like frosting on the rooftop of my aunt’s house

the sled going slick slick down the dewey hillside

and everything is bright

blinding and foggy at the same time

and the stars are just stars

the same constellations i have always known

i am laying belly down on the stained carpet of my mother’s house

the living room with its southern charm

disused fireplace

coffee table books on black holes

i’m there with my feet up kicking

silky little kid hair twirled around my fingers

and i’m learning

the way a black hole molds time like clay

gravity peeling away from me to the twinkle lights

of the christmas tree at the bottom of the stairs

the glittering ornaments

the waxy skin of wrapping paper

taut like leather against the boxes

and i’m 8 again

i’m standing with my mother

and she doesn’t hate me

her teeth are sheathed behind her lips

she sips coffee from a chipped mug

and she says ‘you just missed him’

and i’m small and the world is so big

the world is so big

but my feet are covered by warm socks

still fluffy with newness

and the world is wide open

there is nothing i can’t do

so i run down to the cherry wood table

trace my fingers over the scar i left there

chew holes through the curtains

the parakeet hiding on the windowsill

the smell of bird seed by the piano

the piano they bought my sister when she was young

buck teeth and nimble fingers

dark eyes like twin moons

glowing in the night

and the way the rain cut through the headlights

slick like oil on the tires of my father’s car

the christmas lights through the windshield

Bowie on the radio

and i played that song again and again

because it reminded me of life

and i was old enough to know about death

but the roof was frosty

and the windows were foggy

and the christmas lights twinkled like little galaxies

and i haven’t learned to drive yet

i haven’t learned to curse

i haven’t learned calculus or symmetry or words

all i know is snow and black holes

and i’ve got a lock of your hair in between my fingers

and i’m twirling it for all its worth

and nothing bad has ever happened to me

and nothing bad will ever happen to me