By | 1 February 2021

Except for my bootlaces
that gaze at me captive to
one other; except for my hair,
which once fell to my waist,
is cut above my ears now;
except for the knot between my eye-
brows which cannot be untangled;
except that home is silent and sombre
and you are not here
to take the bag of fatigue
from my scapula, or ask
if you can pour me tea or coffee—
everything is tranquil and tolerant.
Only, without you, the world vetoes me.
The cup explodes
In my hands and tea floods
the window, and my insomnia
meditates on melancholia.
No one injects tramadol
into this torment. Perhaps
since we escape from home
the kettle has revolted, has turned political,
and burned the knife’s fingers so the lesions it
incises are vapourised and banished,
and separation fills the holes
they leave in our flesh.

This entry was posted in 100: BROWNFACE and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.