Garble

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i have undressed a thousand times

but i still do not know myself naked

why should i, when all i have done

is plaster my image on to a canvas too good

for the likes of my oozing pores

i could scrub out all that is earthly within me

and i’d still wake with soft dirt in my mouth

 bound to places, times, memories, maggots

so what is id, if not a tooth rotting precisely where it should

gyrating against the pelvis of ignorantia

i thrust the impressions i have of myself

underneath fervent currents

and carry on,

dirt in my cavities,

dust in my eyes.

Fall through

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Perspective

is that soft suggestive breeze

that utters itself

through the mouth

of a friend

who means no harm

Mind the gap between his

two front teeth

as I lean in to kiss him

out of habit.

A force stronger than

the tickle of a breeze

“The kiss, it’s only in your head, “

whispers the wind,

“Memory is just as suggestive, no?”

No!

Memory trickles down into my skin,

embeds in my nerves,

gets to every tip and follicle

Mind the gap

between his presence and his memory

As you lean in to kiss him,

the fog engulfs and

you fall right through.

Curve, color, repeat

 

Purple. That is what I think the color of ripples are. I don’t know what purple is the way people know what purple is, neither am I familiar with blue, as water is described.But if the ripple of water must have a color, it has to be purple.

I was born from the curse of denatured alcohol, completely blind. Mama has been put away for the knots in her mind. I was also put away for the very same knots many years ago. Since then, I have tried to stay afloat.

Water caresses the thickness of my skin. When I am submerged, the cold fluid embraces the tire rings of my belly, the miles of stretch marks starting from my ass to my well cushioned carpels and all of my chins. I have never seen what I look like, yet being in water is what it’s like to those who seek rewards in mirrors.

My reflection is a bright white. White reflects all colors is the word on the street. I curve into myself, fetal position and uncurl repeatedly, but very slowly. The curve of the curves on my bones will go on curving until I am infinite. There is no trajectory as light bounces off my vessels and veins, hairs and nails, all the colors, slowly and one by one. I am the disco ball in the salty ocean. And since I have no memory of a moon or a sun, I challenge them to match my brightness.

He and his loud friends called me an old walrus when we were all 12. So here I am, I came to the ocean. I met the tide and her waves, and now there is nothing else to hear.

The ocean rumbles and belches, just like I do.

Red.

The ocean gets nervous, starts to think in strong currents, the way I do when I’m alone, and when I’m not.

Orange.

The ocean shivers and shakes and dances to songs of the winds much like the way I can’t help but try to bend, blend, bend in.

Yellow.

The ocean has a bed that goes deeper and deeper and gets softer and softer to stand on. The recesses of my mind and the tunnels in my heart, they start like hot sand and end like cold silt. A little more refined, more knowing.

Green.

The ocean has a temperament that I feel I can match because nobody can see the way I see. They only see what they see.

Blue.

The ocean is fierce on the surface, but once my ears feel the pressure of water, the mighty sea and I sigh and sigh together. We celebrate joy and loss, the subtleties together.

Indigo.

The ocean is all that is there for the ocean. I am all I have too.

Violet.

Where is the purple? It’s somewhere between indigo and violet, somewhere far from sandy shores, miles under water, between my jiggly thighs, behind my hazy cornea, somewhere ensconced in safety. It is also loud and defiant, resonating from the hairs all over my body, making the water ripple. Small ripples first, then waves. Those ripples are purple. Only the blind can see that purple.

 

~fin~

 

Aliya*

What weighs the wisdom of memory

What weighs the spear

What weighs the thud of step

When the tusked warrior draws near

What weighs the water

when the trunk droops deep

What weighs the wind when

the ears hear the fleet

How feels the sand

against the skin so dry then wet

How tears the small eyes

when kin decay

and the end

is met

*Tamil/Sinhala for Elephant