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

Wrist by wrist
The blood sings
Talking of its lives
of its many births within
the arching sands of death's naked breaths
I hear the cackling
The blood gone dry
red chalk, red rocks in red teeth
Dropping, falling, free fall
You are Christmas
curtains and curtains of red
Sleek, silver rubbed on red, raw umber, burnt umber
I watch, 
your only spectator, your faithful companion
from the scales of ripped eyes
I watch your face, it's wry horizon
of white pus cells
I know the sound of the fall, it comes to me like sex
Like slow gradual hymns of pasted nights
on dragging windows and walls
Windmills in the mouth
shredding every hint of knowledge 
No language enters here, particles of air standing outside,
their red potato faces swollen in shame
I know as I am all red
A red song, that you once took in your arms mother,
Once you sang to me when the skies weren't poetry,
when the skies were just a faithful blue
Now they are scratched faces 
of too many
Too many wailing knives 

I watch,
my own faithful companion 
Stare at the redness of dimming lights
Planets around my waist 
What do you take from the grieving except the ability to grieve?

Image and Poem 
© Aakriti Kuntal

One thought on “The-Wrist-is-a-red-hoop

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