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)

panic

The last of gravedigger’s wives
wriggles while bathing,
neck cold as leaves shivering –
aftermath of rainy nights.

Several hours ago, rubbed
against jute, storm after storm
inexplicably sweet lashes burned

her faint-less skin brown.
Growing brown, her fingers
excavate down his shoulders
where fireflies would drown.

Yet. In cold night dreams
he clumps lightning in her ears,
her body melts in his palms

of mud and skin.

(jun6 – jun25, 2010)