Monday, November 11, 2013

To Sandipan Chattopadhyay

Prophesy, being the third medicine, often tore its face through the waters
that gather through dead, dying moments 
rising between the seasons,
our coral reef
your coral reef
unloved children on empty streets, 
blushing vendors in little tea-shacks,
dad's hand slipping inside mom's blouse 
witches shuttling between monuments - here, now, 
o leg, 
o slippers - of all sky and all earth, fever and death dangling mid-air in endless duel
dues paid. 
women, fucked.

and then we saw ants frozen in blood and tuberose. 
do you penetrate the final frontier after this?

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