The girl appeared as if from nowhere
at a doorstep still dripping from last night’s rain.
Her paper cuts slip the secret messages
of what has been written in Cuneiform.
Lest they are mistaken for meaning-making,
her eyes shelter some invisible mask
and a cradle yet to be made for it.
She then wanders into my naked space
Expecting nothing, expecting everything.
I seek her audience and sit her at my table
Where many a garden has ventured long ago.
Lingering day after day, night after night,
only silences skid and whisk a vertigo:
A sanctuary for vacant possession.
“I’m almost ready for my flight” I say to her
“To a territory teeming with angels and demons.”
She looks up from the depth of her gaping wound
and thanks me for the objects and the feather-bed.
Trailing truths and patterns unrecognizable then,
they start knitting a story of lies and chaos
as I leave her and march a widow’s step.
She insists on myth-making then
and clutches her bag in a desperate move
to contain the crucible of shadows appearing in crevices.
Ambushed but defiant, she explains
the nature of her shell, its shape, its size
and the dread of what’s inside it.
I take her by the hand, caress
the maps she has devoured on her skin as if she’s someone else
and ask her for erasures to mark new beginnings.
There, she reminds me that “it’s not the same”
and looks at the ghostly blooms of the monsoon rain.
So much to uncover, so much to untie,
a diagnostic with no immediate cure
except for the unconditional love of the sun and the moon.
I call out often as she crawls back
But she decides instead to winter our encounter.
Mind made up now of stalactites,
my words crash upon temples made of stone,
splintering the earth, even the other One, shards and bellows.
And so I wait, a writer,
reading what has been written on my behalf
praying for the asylum of double vision and transparent lives.
Never to witness, never to utter what is,
that body that grew out of me
is now whipping and hurtling an infinity of swarms.