I always flowed out
like a currency, making you
stand guard, to my entire length of river
till the well dried up, the sands
clogging my cove.
Depleted sap; in and out,
I lay splayed
a desert with a drouth.
The sea, an aqua platina
alloyed, by under-currents
and spilled oil, stood agitated
perhaps waiting for a delta,
to take in his tides.
The tides, the swelling tides
from across the mass of people
makes me an alchemist;
I add chapters to my
book; I flow in now.
Ever since the child has learnt to walk,
Youíve taken his place
In the sling on my back.
I carry your weight
All day long;
It makes my spine hunched.
How it aches, time and again.
But now, Iíve bought a hammock
I climb onto this sling,
It rocks me; cradles me.
I sleep like the child and you
In its hollow folds
For another dayís grind.
the sepia tinted bed time stories
have started showing shut doors
I have folded and hung them on a nail.
I have even
collected the runaway sleeps
pressing them into little red-blue pills.
save the dark-
coercing me to cohabit with it.
Cohen says, light comes in through the crack;
I hear- an Incubus visits Irene,
does it slide in, through the breach?
A while from now, the clock will
insult, in its hysterical shriek; and-
I will veil my untouched length of silk
once more, with heavy cottons.
The thobbing legs will run to reap
More than it can keep.