Your Voice is Not a Slice
Keep roots full, gourds bitter; let wild nature fiercely twine against all…
Read more →A guillotine-flash demolishes a home, scattering categorized fragments of intimate, barren spaces.
They are categorising
what has fallen
from the house.
Plastic is a conglomerate
of colours. Metal shards of suns.
Of wood a consortium
of old and golden: teak, palm, window,
willow, bark, bureau, bundles of
bookends. A ledge
held more than you ever thought
it would. A 50p coin, nail clipper,
potted Tulsi, tape recorder,
a key, nights
and niches of you.
Now barren. Now bloated
with senseless light.
Demolishers weighing
liveries one would don in this drama.
Coastal wind takes
a turn here as if it can come down
and unsee like a blind.
As if barrenness rhymes with
its sound of slicing down
all at once in a guillotine-flash.