last ~ poetry

a ruler of guilt

the doctor scrapes his clipboard with a pencil:

its ferrule emptied of eraser like the well

my unborn sister, as it turns out, didn't fall in.

my finger skates across the rink of her

stitched hips and tumble over her spine.

with the guilt of history in my pockets

i nod off on the local train dreaming

of pickpocket, of being emptied like

the wrecked ferrule, like the dried well.

~ ajay

30/9/2024