“let me see your hands.”
she studies them.
my nails are scavenger birds,
pinched skin palms like half-eaten crop.
i squirm– colicky and caffeinated,
sink into an armchair
and pretend I’m picking another afternoon.
the room is an echo chamber,
round corners and mustard bonsai,
white noise stuffed into milky ceramic
and a tan tart ginger tea–
get me out of here.
her questions are cautious.
drawing punctuation like pick-up sticks,
i think of how she must see me–
unmade bed of a person;
tungsten bulb in the hottest July
or soft like a jar of bruised jamuns
hoping this summer they’ll pickle.
i am wary of rescue,
italicised diagnoses
and ivory china–
the woman offers a smile.
she searches my mouth for signs of a lesion
finds the carmine molars
guilty of assault.
fingers curled like prescription vowels,
i swallow tears like antihistamines, choke
then blame it on the agarbatti.
i play it cool–
caramel bisque
at the brink of a fissure.
the scene is infernal,
i am Achlys and in the window
is a dying sun.
she watches me crumple,
fold into myself like origami–
a putrid crop at harvest.
the sun flickers to a soft marmalade;
wooden floor possessed by light,
a carpet scattered with spare moments
and suddenly these walls are made of skin.
high tide,
and mine is a sandcastle world.
this moment is delicate
i hold my breath. float a while.
she drapes me in cling wrap,
sets me down in a fruit basket
and calls the evening glorious.
“let me see your hands.”
she holds them and I think
maybe I like this armchair,
“can I have some of that tea?”
