Will these hands ne’er be clean by Srishti Jain (Australia, 26)

​my ancestors they feared
the world that birthed them –

but I set it on fire. now I watch
from the skies, as my children

burn. now these are the things
without all remedy, when they

were once without regard.

​when my daughter stands on
the beach, the earth blazes

her sole. when she jumps in
the ocean, she acerbs her skin.

the village where my father
deified the soil

with his tiny hands, is drowning,
imploding unto itself,

and with it the first tree
he planted. I have heard the joke

about the end of the world, it’s
the same one about love

and life – we think we have time.





Srishti Jain is an Indian poet and physiologist based in Sydney. Her work reflects a personal representation of diaspora identity, vulnerabilities as a person of colour, as well as love and belonging in a fast, unforgiving world. Her work has been published in various literary journals such as Red Ogre Review, Rigorous, The Cancer Researcher, Meniscus, Clepsydra- Literary and Art Magazine. Her poetry on climate justice can be found in the streets of Dublin as part of The Bohemian Way campaign.