CONVERSATIONS WITH HARRIETT INTERPRETATIVE DANCE

Interpretative Dance of Conversations With Harriett by Niyala Sabnis

ROOT QUARTERLY

Thankful to Root Quarterly for publishing my story, Down By the Riverside.

IT'S ME THEY FOLLOW

the path with no beginning is worth beginning

it’s worth it to walk to stomp to drag or drip along these yellow bricks

and with no knowing of what lies ahead, what makes this path most important are the footsteps that

follow those tip toes moving along behind me

their marching at their own uncanny pace

facing north

we’re heading towards the promised land

we are completely capable

completely capable 

our minds are focused

we’re ready, creative, unyielding, mature

you hear the whispers?

those are the ancient voices

speaking prophesy in my left ear

negro spirituals singing songs in my subconscious mind

we’re building bridges with our tongues

we’re opening doors with our third eye

it’s me they follow

it’s me they follow

it’s me they follow

it’s me they follow 

MIDNIGHT & INDIGO

I wrote this and then left it on the shelf for a while. Champions was recently pulled back out and published by Midnight & Indigo magazine. I appreciate their support and give them praise for my reawakening. Here’s an excerpt from Champions:

“Put one foot onto the toilet bowl. Try to pee in a steady stream overva short white stick. Pay careful attention not to oversaturate. Remember that you are not equipped with the proper aiming tools, so getting everything into the toilet will be a dance. Gag at the smell of your pee. Follow your teeth with your tongue. Taste the chalky film in your mouth. Throw the stick into the sink when you lose balance. Keep your underwear above your knees. Extend backwards for toilet paper and wipe the seat after finishing with yourself. Sit on the seat for a while.”

Read the full essay at Conversations With Harriett

DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE

My story, Down By The Riverside, was just chosen as a feature in Adelaide Magazine. Here’s an excerpt:

“She was used to the flinching. The fiddling. The mess. The begging. The crying. The blood. These women with their thick thighs and thin thighs and saggy thighs and shriveled thighs came here to spread them. She was as close to God as they could get.

“Miss.” 

“Miss.” 

They’d whisper down her hallway. 

They knew to ring the bell, that only they knew existed. They’d come with their differences, but they couldn’t help being the same.

“I changed my mind.”

“They say I will die.”

“This baby is sick.”

“I don’t know the father.”

“I’ve started to show.”

“My father raped me.

“My grandfather.”

“My uncle.”

“My brother.”

“My neighbor.”

“My nephew.”

“My friend. He raped me.”

So she’d do it. Her clear eyes made her feel invisible to them and she couldn’t see them either. As a formality she’d run her fingers across their foreheads, over their eyebrows, down their noses, and around their lips. The only thing she ever remembered were their voices. She could recall the slightest tremors from aisles away in the marketplace. There goes flat face or bumpy face or wrinkled face—-pretending not to know me.”

Read more at Conversations With Harriett.

Summer Love

The lover I lost

We’d visited once or twice

We kissed

Lover I is

We exist

Time just ain’t summer

Summer of bliss

Summer of fists and piss and risks and knives and

tongues and gifts

The lover I lost

Lost twice

Both times my thoughts switched

Lover I lost once don’t have the same eyes

Or lips

Can’t see me

Can’t save me

Love lost us that summer

It just missed