The Moirai's Incantation, by Suchismita Karmakar

Clotho: 

dribb ling 

grape juice. rust on my 

palm, rust of my fingers pulverised 

and putrefied by the sisyphian cycle of spinning 

i am destined to. today was the first time i lifted my spindle 

and perforated the citrus rotundity, gelatinous grape 

juice flows like a thread into my mouth. 

the first time i have punctured my 

ennui to lick the sour of 

my fate. 

Lachesis: 

the diaphanous 

currency of my myopic 

eyes measuring the interstices 

between breath and gasps and cessation. 

i trade in yarns and spools as my sight develops a glazed translucency: the tome of fate with its letters blur, crack 

open and evanesce into porous time through which my life slipped through and is still slipping through without a 

destiny. my eros and thanatos are at war. 

i am water: i flow with them. 

a whirlwind of clashes: 

me and me. 

Atropos: 

smoothalabaster, 

granite set features. my 

statue as immovable as my face 

atonal as my voice. a crystalline fixture.

when i light a taper, the flame rips the air in a silent crescendo like i snip lives in a flick quicker than lightning. yews curtsy to me. zeus is my compeer. “eléou kaí phóbou” denuded of pity, fear and awe tantalise in my wake. power over fortune drips from my gossamer gown like honey, a saccharine too elusive for my tongue. wielder of fates cannot wield her fate predestined by predestination, foreclosed in a 

sisyphian cycle, empowered by my 

own power 

 less 

ness. 

The Fates: 

who 

are we? a rarefied breed 

dissolving like a colloid into the lives 

we calibrate. deriving identity from what eludes 

us. destiny as elusive and distant as will-o'-the-wisps, the 

golden droplets of magic we caressed in those lost fields of simulation. who are we but a 

wraith 

in our own hands 

fated and 

programmed by a 

paradox

A note from the editor: this wins best piece of the season for me. I don't even know where to start. it is rhythmic, hypnotic, utterly smooth and pellucid in how the lines are configured, with their breaks and general form. it reminds me so heavily of ancient greek plays, i can imagine it being sung by a chorus. its desiccated lines are exactly how destiny feels, with a perfect balance between the personal and distant. each word is delicious.

About the author:

the poems have been written by Medusa's priestess. also known in the mortal world as  Suchismita Karmakar, a postgraduate student of English Literature at the University of  Calcutta, India. she loves to hold everyone in thrall, casting her spell of a willing suspension of disbelief by her poems that have been previously published in the Otherwise Engaged: A Literature and Arts Journal, with upcoming publications in Zhagaram Literary Magazine (in March), Viridine Literary and an upcoming short story publication in oranges journal. when not strolling around the city in tulle gowns or reefer coats, she scribbles down feverish verses by the candlelight.