Hands-are-Shelves ( iii )

Between pale finger skins, my arm hangs like a clause
single arm, cut, detached 
Outside the body, it roams 
A diffusion of light gone wrong

Fingers are not five, they are many
Proliferating lips like sickles on tips
prodding, taking, giving, holding, holding
Orange curls of seaweed and sunrise

I take a moment in time
Lock it under my thighs
Then I take another
straight to my crotch 
Then another into another, before and after
Sequences are mirage, the body roams outside of space,
always in touch, its tactile breasts 
are headlights twice 
       sequences are fractures scratching each other
The body has no numbers, only indentations 
each a strain of thawing blood

What do you offer but life to time? 
I sneeze. An arm falls. And then another.
I continue. I elongate severed. My time is vacant. 
Empty as the clawed eye socket.
Outside, rapidly blurring songs are turning purple on the membrane
of scorched windows.

And everywhere I look, only single colors flow.

Image and words 
© Aakriti Kuntal
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