American Standard
by S. S. Mandani
We descend from our former selves in the shape of rain, dropping into a soul. We time machine through the uncut grass, see the soil; witness the decomposition of our ancestors’ bodies. We flow with lava, forming new landmasses before plunging into the depths of uncharted knots of ocean. We feel the rifts our mothers climbed to birth us in the land promised. Our grandfathers, as young men, sit at busy intersections drinking chai, dissolving into the future. Electricity, a game of lotto. The radio, a grand window. Sowing our tomorrows into tapestries of light, our great-grandmothers survive equatorial heat by spritzing curtains with water to cool our kin to sleep. Through the molten core, we wormhole into the hollow, a bardo suspended in a katabatic wind. We sit cross-legged and call the names of our past until they turn emerald in our hands. We learn of forfeited riches. Swords turned to pens of saffron ink. We fade further until our sinking improves to a swim. We wade through meadows of spirits, saving for a sprint. Waving at our heroes through gates of gold, we decide to return another day. We rocket through layers of mantle, and set foot on land anew. A land we helped create. We forge ahead with pens in hand, promising to keep them sheathed, whispering promises are two-way streets.
S.S. Mandani is a writer, runner, and coffee person from New York City. His work is featured or forthcoming in New World Writing, XRAY, Lost Balloon, and others. Equal parts Murakami and Calvino, his novel in progress explores Sufi mysticism to tell the story of how a climate world war brings together a dysfunctional family of jinns spanning a hundred years. It envisions a murky, yet hopeful future. He radios @SuhailMandani.
