Give it Time
If lightly discarded feathers
and a glossy, virgin-white flower
fall at my feet as I pass by
I might not cast an arched shadow
of a doubt
trapped in a corner, tied around my ankles.
Each fine hair weighs a ton
in the endless wheel.
They mate with immaterial gravity
they collapse like they were
made of iron.
Loan me some words
to muffle with language the sound
of my knees breaking
as my wizened legs crumble, startled,
fractured under the weight of centuries-old,
straight-jacketed sand.
The mantle of my eyelid
moves over the almost sticky,
marble-cold surface of my eyeball
with one downward swiping stroke.
It descends like an assertion
like a death sentence.
Mostly, Disappointment
We were trampled, mocked,
left to wither for a laugh.
We, who had been once called
the heroes in the Myths.
We danced with the God within,
with the Devil within,
and with all the spectres
that march between them.
We left nothing to chance
and the promises we kept
hidden from sight, inside steel
boxes sealed with rancour.
Daily we were fed
mostly disappointment
and with each spoonful
we grew accustomed to the taste.
We celebrated our defeats
one after the other.
And when we finally won
we didn’t know what to do.
We did our best to misunderstand
we tried time and again to unlearn
but the patterns were ingrained,
we’d turned flaws into routine.
Mother’s Rain
This is the rain
your mother predicted
would fall grey
in the evening.
She said the rain
would leave oil
stains late
in the evening.
Slimy droplets
mother said
will wash over steps
thick as mucus when you’re sick.
She warned you
not to be fooled by a clear sky
in the early hours
of an unremarkable day.
We are Fallen
We are Fallen.
See them Innocents over
there, beyond the Styx?
No; we, the Fallen,
have relinquished our privilege.
Them Innocents they believe
in the joy of Chinese shadows.
We, the Fallen, have burnt
all the paper silhouettes.
Our fingers, too, got burnt.
See them Innocents? See
their hands? No scars.
We, the Fallen, now know.
Now we hurt on this shore.
This is our barren garrison.
Them Innocents they sleep
with their minds shut.
We, the Fallen,
stand in the lookout,
surveying the shore of
no exemption;
eager sentinels for knowledge.
They call us Sinners
but we do no penitence
we entertain no remorse.
Them Innocents they are
whole, they preserve
their smooth, unsoiled skin.
We, the Fallen,
speak with creases on our voices.
Our scars are of liminal tissue,
fusing past and future,
melting pain and fear.
Them Innocents they
have their tongues
stuck to their palates, and
a permanent smile
painted on their faces.
Little do they know
that we, the Fallen,
would slaughter them
by the scores; would seal
their smiles once and for all.
If only we, the Fallen, could
cross back to the other shore.
He Swallowed Me Whole
On Friday she touched his teeth.
She said, pointing at the window,
“Look! A three-headed monkey!”
When he raised his head
with his lips slightly parted
she took her index finger and put it inside his mouth.
Studying with care the lower row
of teeth almost imperceptibly crooked.
Then caressing his incisors.
She was shocked to find blunt edges,
rather than sharpness
and decided she needed more time
to conduct a thorough exploration.
Next Friday, at night, while he was sleeping.
She forced herself once more
into his mouth.
She introduced her index finger again, then her whole hand.
Before she knew it she had landed on his tongue.
Now, things looked quite different
from the inside.
She shouted at him: “Let me out!”
But he couldn’t hear her scream
from inside his mouth.
The wonder and wetness of the soft
surface of the tongue
and then the hard enamel of his back teeth.
It was a strange, strange landscape.
So much less strident than she had expected.
Yet sublime.
Inevitably, after a few moments,
he swallowed her whole.
There, inside the warmth of his cavities
“this is exactly where I needed to be”
she thought.
