Ink-Stained Fingers

By Nikhita Rao

Now there’s ink on my hands,

Spread thick on my fingers,

And try as I might,

They wash away not.

The thought dies on my ink-stained fingers,

In a flash in my eye,

I was blinded by its light,

As the white of its sight

Made me tremble,

And close my eyes.

Humbled was I,

To be granted the right,

To envision the bright,

Descending, invisible,

To all but me, in truth.

With a head bowed down,

I lettered with care,

The sight, sound, sense,

In words and words,

To distil its essence.

But in the black words,

When I read it back,

I dimly see and faintly hear,

The supernova attack.

Like traveling over lightyears,

I twist and turn,

the words over and over,

Showing and not telling,

The best I can.

But the sun becomes candlelight,

As I resuscitate the dying star,

My pupils dilate in the darkness,

Searching for the memory,

Of the bright light.

As the halo fades,

Can I bring it back to life,

After it revealed itself to me?

Did I just see the corpse,

Or did I stab it in,

To capture it in my hurry?

I am left with the husk,

And a memory of the dusk,

And I cry in despair,

That I couldn’t transcribe,

The poetry of that flare.

By Nikhita Rao