Friday, July 18, 2014

Slow writing and quick erasing

In my book I write you
In  dark corners, all over the mud walls
 in the rice fields of late rain in the crooked house by the river
 In the  bougainvillea by the fence under the pillows
 in the shadows of candles and kerosene lamps
In the tulsi of the courtyard where
 mother performs the morning prayers
 In the evening rites of Sanamahi where I offer incense
In the filtering sunlight through the fine white curtains
In echoes  made by children returning home from school
 Kicking dust and sucking on popsicles
In the ache and agony of piercing glass pieces
Suddenly dropped on a thirsty midnight
In the blood that is spilled, violently 
In the bugle played by the wedding band
In the tale of Khamba-Thoibi
I write you in all the places you have never seen,
You have never been,
And then I erase you
From the pavements, from the cigarette ashes
From the paraphernelia of pain
The sudden brake of the car
When the afternoon bursts into a thunderstorms
In my slow writing and the quick erasing
In the trappings of memory
I am beginning to forget the immediacy of you.
When you were just a hand reach away from me.

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