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Gone Lawn 56
sturgeon moon, 2024

Featured artwork, Untitled, by Abbie Doll

new works

Aditi Bhattacharjee



Aditi Bhattacharjee

Homecomings with Unexpected Outcomes


When you come back it will be less home more dirt, dead plants, cracked walls, cat medication on the table, mossed ceilings, fungi in the spice jar, dust collecting on books, dust on shelves, dust everywhere. At a party your husband will knock the wine from your glass onto your favourite silk dress. Your cat will pee on the beanbag and the whole house will smell, no matter how much you scrub or spray. Someone’s kid will break the clay figurine of Kali that was dear to your mother, and you’ll watch the pieces of your heart lie on the floor as the child is fussed over.

Or you’ll get stuck in a snowstorm and the emergency call will go unanswered. You’ll miss trains, planes, friends’ weddings because you moved to another country. Despite being a rat on a pinwheel your weight will not budge. Your thyroid disorder will be of small concern when one friend is dying, another being left by her husband, another one miscarrying. You will become the mother you never got and talk your inner circle through messy separations and unfulfilling jobs. One friend would be too broken to talk about his father’s demise, the other won’t stop whining about how her parents stifle her.

Maybe Alzheimer’s won’t get you as you had anticipated but your father will forget—at first it will be things like going to the office without his wallet, coming back from the market without his phone, ringing the neighbour’s bell instead of yours—eventually he won’t recall this time, his name, you—for the most part it would feel like Life is holding your head underwater. As far as your mother-in-law’s concerned everything will be your fault and by that, I mean everything.

The burger you were craving will come with soggy fries and too much of you will be spent in the day-to-day such that eventually the mirror will show someone you don’t exactly know. But don’t worry about it, you’ll find yourself managing well, even with the thyroid and now the chronic back pain. You will pull your head out of the water, massage the back of your neck with burnt garlic in mustard oil and get going, all the while savoring—the air rushing through your nose, heart pulsating, wet mouth drying too fast, leaving you wanting for more.



Aditi Bhattacharjee is an Indian writer and educator, currently based in New York. Her poetry and nonfiction has appeared or is upcoming in Alipore Post, Lunch Ticket Magazine, Curlew New York, SLAB, Pile Press, Evocations Review and elsewhere. Most recently her poems have received Honorable Mention for the Paul Violi Prize, nominated for Best New Poets and shortlisted for The Prose Poem’s 2024 Spring Short Prize. When not writing, she likes to indulge in people-watching at the city’s many parks and piers. She holds an MFA from The New School.