Every time Ivy picks up the call, in one ring, and says, “hanji bataiye”
I know, with every breath, her name didn’t do justice to who she is.
A revolution in ink-inscribed scroll, she drapes her wounds
in saponins and polyacetylene and blood and salt and rainbows.
My lover is a spokesperson — of the state of grace and generosity
— her magnanimous presence oozes pride out of my gut.
Ivy waits for hours besides the one, maimed, till the lady comes
to take him to shelters. Each pur, a reminder. Each wag, a quiet dusk.
Soft muslin to the skin, lemongrass to the tea.
She is what mothers love but only from a distance.
Ivy is a woman gulping words for dinner.
Addhaya Anil (they/them) is a queer feminist artist from Bihar. They are “driven and guided by love” and spend their leisure time in varied creative pursuits.