by Nitoo Das
The past is chalked symmetry,
gnarly and vertebral. A torso
that does not let go and clings to me.
He squints straight
out of the inside into a tremolo
Layered and child-like, he has to be loved
against the velvet of my coat
so that he dreams of a mouth, legs
and maybe, some hair.
And I, I wear an egg-shell
cover, a barely legible wire
and collars that copy the twilight
colours of curtains.
I look within the walls,
profiled and anorexic
remembering fetishes and guile:
a mise-en-scène propped together
by a grasping
as frail as spit-glue and as odd
as snotgreen buttons.