Around Silvered Lapses

 

              On sister’s birthday, to Sana

Little wheel-like things crisscross

on city midnights, and

where I coil this

nothing tracks down to you.

In fifteen years

I have not pinched orange skin,

snarled at by an amnesiac cat, or hid

between parents’ quilts.

It’s permanent to have you

traffic-spotting behind that green gate,

your small head next to mother’s waist

in holly patterns on the kitchen wall,

still clay-parrots on the windowsill

a blink away before you sleep,

on an unexpected rainy afternoon,

for healthiness, I confused

a bitter pill into your mouth:

at the mouth of thinkings gallery

not all hours are full of fears.

Where I coil this,

frayed white sleeve-edges scuff

distinct hair on my wrists,

like hasty men of conurbations

brush faces on local trains,

a camouflage of time in my bedroom,

every day of this year, sheds skin:

my other half is a condensery of lost language,

consisting of you.

(Nov 5 – Nov 8, 2009)

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