The Honey Land Review
Fall 2010
Volume 3, Issue 1
It is Singapore by the time I wash Larrakeyah country out of my hair. In Cullen Bay I
had watched swarms of dragonflies and wondered which of them your son was, and
what it meant that I had entered their sphere, so soon before your wedding in the
flooded city. At the market, I found one with a bronze body, its tail tapered to the east,
its wings angled to the west, and I knew it was for you. The country in my hair accrued
from the afternoon I lay my body down in the earth and let it steep into me, like a tea. In
the near distance, the voices of people under trees. In the nearer distance, the voices of
the trees themselves. The one that unfanned its drapery of leaves above me had a quiet
one, like the sound of droplets falling soft into water. I wash my hair and think of the
Papunya Tula, rituals painted into dots, the dreamt and dreaming universe a mass of
dancing circles. Everything spirals to the same centre. There was water there, and
winged things, as there must be where you are.
The Country In My Hair
Sharanya Manivannan
Sharanya Manivannan is the author of Witchcraft, a book of poems.  Her fiction, poetry
and essays have appeared in
Drunken Boat, Superstition Review, Killing the Buddha, Full of
Crow, Pratilipi
and elsewhere.  She can be found online at www.sharanyamanivannan.com
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