We have new walls, first without paint, new doors that slide without sound, a new chandelier the bulbs of lilies glowing in there like babies waiting to be born. Observe dimming lights fall on dusty tiles, hold that thread
so much space, my room is a place with its own god where I sit and listen to the drone of engines as airplanes take off from JKIA, behind the curtains sometimes a bird will get trapped flutter against the window, unaware of the barriers convinced of its own madness. The red bird will view my attempts to free it as false, like the CAT truck arms of the present regime, so it will continue to flatter until it is out of breath and the music it will make will never be the same.
Curtains are left drawn to obstruct any attempts of shadows watching me sleep.
I free the bird at last and it will perch on my neighbors’ tree. We cut down our new shrubs.
Cousins have moved in and one is a drunkard although I am too in secret. He fills the new house with the smell of Sportsman cigarettes, smelling feet, sweat, and finally maybe this is what it feels like to have a man in the house. Urine.
Her blood is a pantoum, but I could just as easily have imagined it
My brother comes from church with his new deodorant air. My mother has imported perfume in her dresses, and all this give me headaches. Often I can smell apples through the morning curtains. Often it is a trick of rain. Remember the thread
in the upward well is the white underside of a dead lizard, a recurring Narcissus. Everywhere, lizards darting across the compound jumping onto walls only to come back when my footsteps are outworn.
Newts like old men hunting for flies in the latrine. Flies have a day to complete their life cycle and I think this a dream. How many times do we kill in our dreams? Also so much space for rats to run in, they eat through underwear like cotton candy. Luna Park the banana ride.
think about the meniscus of my cornea and if I should attempt a self-portrait. There is no thread.