Tale’s Peak



I pinch one edge and turn it 

for the hundredth time. 

It lingers like dust on my fingers: 

the skyward roller coaster rush 

of the plot, building butterflies, 

then coiling my gut into tangles. 


This tale’s peak was chapters ago

but the calm descent— 

perhaps the next page. 


I bask in the blinding gleam

of clashing muddles.

This apex has become linear;

the rusting wheels only dawdle

and the sprightly wings have wilted,

now crumbling in its antiquity.


This tale’s life flatlined long ago

but I breathe for it—

the resolve somewhere.


Until then, the dust will stay unwashed 

as I pinch the edges and turn it

in the hopes that after the last page,

it would find its rest on the top shelves,

deemed classic. FATIMA B. BADURIA

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