We were going down the snake river
Like orphans we were trying to search
Faces and nuances of filial connection
We were drawing blood to match color
and scents and shed tears to see clear
Or see through the foundling parents
Justifying the sacrifice or seething at
Abandonment yet the scouting for the
Place to belong and have a totem kept
We dropped our armor on the salver
Dissolved in tea, sugarcubes colorless,
but the stain resurfaced hemosiderin
Things seldom quite under wraps and
Become ballistic, its taste was in the air,
Acrid, of matricide, ire and ambivalence.
Shadows whisper and glide like death
But the cry is soulful and reminder of
Ears are clogged with nerves and gum
Valsalva’s maneuver aids with knife
Vertigo follows her around the room
Like panorama of your gadget lenses
Quilt keeps getting larger and wrinkled
As the frame it ensheaths shrinks to
She smothers the yawning collarbone
As she throws up oftener than often,
Thigh gap widens, but anorexia is not
The thing she brought upon herself,
She imagines her hair over bald moon
Looking out of the window, now just
And thinks of it as a witch levitating in
Air, harder to breathe without aid of
The loss, not just impinged on a brush
But of jewel called life she won’t trade
Dreams of being in a Narcopolis arise
All the morphine still couldn’t equal,
The Valsalva maneuver or Valsalva manoeuvre is performed by moderately forceful attempted exhalation against a closed airway, usually done by closing one's mouth, pinching one's nose shut while pressing out as if blowing up a balloon.
Cachexia or wasting syndrome is loss of weight, muscle atrophy, fatigue, weakness, and significant loss of appetite in someone who is not actively trying to lose weight.
Ophir. : a biblical land of uncertain location but reputedly rich in gold
Audacity to think of acceptance
Anticipation of a rejection letter
on the monitor on the table top
in the dimmed light of zero watt
bulb, glaring screen vicariously
slaps one on the face. Go have
a look in the mirror. Get fluffy
half spheres under the carapace
of the roof of your body scanned.
You send an email out waiting
for the poet’s sweepstake win.
Go about humdrum life, feign
forgetfulness, nonchalance for
all your life blood sucked out of
your fingers, through intricate
Cortico-spinal connections, dull
under turgid prosaic existence.
An Impostor, you are terrified.
When the ashes of your soul
arrive in the guise of a ‘sorry,
better luck next time’ gloating.
You remember that which you
had never forgotten. You, that
stolid straight faced dead liar
cannot any longer hold it back
the Grimace of being hit below
the belt, the welt of dried ink.