Only Past can hide the truth

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“Where is the assignment?”

You ask a question the philosophers have argued over

“Didn’t do it, sir.”
“Why?

Because..because…
Where do I even begin—
I usually begin with stories
They fly in through the window, peck at me
Until I emerge out of my cotton caverns
Today, they brought along a fox, orange like melting sun
She hid under my bed and didn’t crawl out until
I sacrificed to her some of my food
had travelled villages and trees in search of her child
Streams and bridges and bushes, she had asked

told me of a little, blind boy with a ***** sack
He wandered about streets, and parks
Every turn memorised over years— every fortunate bin.
His scarred hands searching for softness— of
half-eaten fruits and soggy breads— of cloths.
Dry papers, he collected and sold to people unseen
He slept on the grass, sang songs and gave her food
Then one day she waited but he never came
Then one more, and one more, then—

But you don’t want a story, do you?
right.
Uses of crystalline solids.

“I’m sorry.”
“Were you sick?”

Sick?
Yes, I was sick. But not like that girl, over there,
With a runny nose and funny coughs
I was sick with strange blisters just
under my skin.
they itched and burned, and I could not calm them down
Instead I winced. I curled up like an injured worm
And when the doctor asked me where it hurt
I said nowhere
I said there was a campfire inside me
I said the fish hanging over it had turned to coal
wild-grass soup was spilling out the ***— it’s hisses in flames
I said the people had fought themselves to deaths
And now the fire was alone, and the camps too
And the mother fish calling for her son
And the moon,
And the bodies—

But he said it was just my brain talking

“No.”
“Did you have to go somewhere?’

I did. Past the raging seas, beyond all mighty peaks, I followed a jolly fairy to the hidden garden where all dead flowers go.

“No, sir.”
“Any guests?”

A guest, I did.
But I didn’t invite him. I don’t even know his name.
He banged in through my locked door
A hazy grey shadow with two horns, four fangs and many claws
He ate nicely and didn’t judge my dying plants
He made a blanket fort out of my unfolded clothes,
we had a tea-party,
I painted his claws pink, braided his fur
he crafted me a paper-sword
And we duelled till our weapons creased and sun stopped burning
Then we sang together in our husky voices
And I’d tell you more but I swore
to protect him.

“No, sir. I did not.”
“Then where’s the assignment?”
“I forgot.”

I didn’t forget. I sat down to write but my brain
started talking. It talked and talked
and didn’t cease. Not until I hid back in my caves
and walked away from the night.

“I’ll give it tomorrow.”

Uuh...

“You sure?”

You ask a question the philosophers have—

“Yes, sir. sure. I’ll give it tomorrow.”

Bless tomorrow.

she comes to me with every star
— every bird
greets me on my creased bed
She smiles—
in the long-silenced alarm clock,
in dry roses tapped on wall,
unkept cots of all my jasmines and shrubs,
— my missed classes,
in the cars talking outside

she says,
the dance has long began
I say, I am not awaited
she says she would like a waltz
I say,
please, go without me
here, I'll leave the window open—

she says,
I live in the dusty shelves
— in your abandoned body
I say,
I’ll clean today, scrub off my skin
I'll pull out the weeds

she says,
the air reeks of me
I say,
I’ll put on a song.

but the song wobbles like a paper-boat in a stream
it sublimes away with my breaths—

she watches me—
bath,
as I strip the bed naked, and redress him
as I feed my plants, as I
fold the clothes and tuck them neatly away

her lips meet my neck, as mine
meet the porcelain mug—
tongue trials down my back
as the sandy tea falls soundlessly in me

and I shiver

and she’s there in the unfinished painting
here on my dry skin, webbed eyes,
my jagged lips

I say,
I want you to leave
out this room— out this dressed up city

(her willowy fingers betrothed to mine)

— out these voiceless books
and feeble veins
my ****** sketch-pencils and
and the pictures you **** hue out of

(swords clashing— she aims her lips at mine)

I want you gone,
here, I'll leave the window open.

(and rips them apart; she turns me to glitter)

tell me to go and I’ll go,
she says, later.

tell me,
she says.

tell me,
she says.

I wonder what lonely sees
 women with pretty eyes
— a library in the night
a classroom with broken chairs

white-boards
         and bullet-holes
echoes in the halls,
giggles on the swings—
a group of laughing men

wine glasses with their clinks
an unread book—
     a wet matchstick box

I wonder what lonely sees—
when he wanders around the towns
  — whether
endless moors beneath    glass-lid skies
  empty roads,
and emptier cadavers —

or
— just the world

as it is—