Hands-are-Shelves  ( Picture Series ( i ) )

These fingers are fishes in corpuscles 
cement deconstructed, compartments
Each: a fever, a cold death, a run, a fairytale, a dream

I am circles
of continuous defeat
Defeat gathers defeat, as dust does dust
Homes are constructed with uprooted flesh 
Lesions splattered, spread with wine
on dining tables, musky flavors of suspecting fatal air

I ask you to come
Point under point awaits, my cells have been evacuated
I risk color in your exposure, my skin surfacing into clots of lost red, scattered red, found red, seized red
Come make this land a swamp
Countless reflections 
Countless ripples
Surgery on the bone marrow
Trickling red days

Water, come
make death a garden
As I vacate 
Everything occupies what was once not its
The only vacuum 
is blood really
For it is filled with life
Life with its stomach slit
from the moment skin makes its first contact 
and the air burns
Her cotton shelf tired of collecting 
Relics of dead under the faces of undead

Image and Poem
© Aakriti Kuntal

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