By Anisha Baid
Who can tell me
If the air ten feet from me is mine yet?
Or do I have to wait still
For it to be in my lungs before
I can claim it?
Is the air that sticks
And slides under the edge of my nose, mine yet?
Or is it their’s who breathed it first?
Is the air inside my lungs, my own space?
Is the space inside my mouth, my home?
Or does it belong to those, who own this land and sea,
Or those who own my custody
Or my mind and me?
Are the spaces around my fingers and toes, mine to touch?
Or to explore?
Is the length of my field of vision
Measured and taxed,
Or can my eyes see as my own?
Can I even claim
The emptiness I exhale
As mine In this world?
What can I say for art?
Anisha Baid is a twelfth grade student constantly reinventing perpetual paradoxes to kill time. Travelling back and forth from lengthy fiction to poetry to five minute art to design, she is always in search for new homes for the ideas in her mind.