Friday, May 24, 2019

Devika Mathur writes

Collection of things

i write about words flipping. An austere silence of white spot.

where my mind slips like a star, a container of things.

All things small. All things big.
Sunflowers. Mirrors. Wash basins of sins. A sliced layer of a tongue.

I keep things safely like the moon keeps tides.

Often my body expands, and I talk about hallowing point of death.

A blue stigma of turgescent smell.

I write about broken ceilings, tip-toed pain seeping inside.

And numb arms floating. I am a collector of things.

I collect people. From the sideways of my pupil.

Under the quietness of my skin.

Infestation. Indentation of stains.

each finger comprises a twig of pain :loss

you count one, and a pit is created,

Countless movements of scales.

Countless movements of corpuscle.

I take the final drop of blood

lurking through the moments of us,

between the cotton moisture,

between the untold air, humid.

I become a ball of loss and regeneration.

And I write about geography instilled with hushed voices.

-- José Gallardo

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