Hopes are arranged.
I take my seat.
The dishes shine and
instead of the tried and tasted cuisines
you serve something
that denies the temptation of the form and shape.
‘Mother, what will we have
‘Hope’, you say.
My father’s name is hunger
and since the day
he went to the factory
and returned slope-shouldered
he always lingers here,
near, too much near,
Death Strolls By Hope
In the laughs of a streetlight
a homeless man feeds his
kittens before having a morsel,
and death passes him even tonight,
him and all those kittens.
The man begins reading eight obscure
words related to sleep-
oscitancy, logy, soporific, dozy,
sleepify, peepy, somnolent, sloomy.
Death returns nearby, yawns and
let a planet inhaled inside.
Hope In Straightjacket
pointing at the pills utters the nurse.
Her mouth will turn platypus
once I swallow the pills- the ‘red queen’ first,
then the ‘father’s broken bottle green’,
‘yellow submarine playing in a loop’.
I name all of them.
I shall never know what they go by in the market-
perhaps ‘a touch of wind for your head’!
I swallow all those thoughts, and they
witch dance washed in the moon of my nocturnal heart,
witches who dance to bring dimness, more dimness,
and they dance merging their bodies
into each other again and oh, again.
Thoughts have never been easy to swallow.
What I think about not recalling them in the first place
chokes my pipe, system.
I call, “Mother!” and the nurse
wraps my flesh in the white stillness.