Even in my dreams I have to jump the terraces of the night to reach you in your father's house
whose scissor jaws never bite rip fabric into art golden thread that binds you all I want a thread-
breadth lighter skin too Art sold for five hundred rupees in the sari shop at a junction shared with a
samosa stall where women with permitted freedom skip the first piece that your old man
wished to be overridden I want to be with you after the women leave ironing and folding the
infinite only pieces I want our souls to haunt the room and the would-be bride customers to unfold
the folded saris laugh sneakily I peek at you through the hole a butterfly wide in the lower
left corner abaft velvetine designers that could be metaphors for hope but I think its just an
anomaly of construction where remain latent flights of hope but cut short for the sky is fallen on
the earth and heights are folded upon themselves like racks upon racks of saris that have no
familiar ghosts behind speaking in binary.
~Ajay
14/4/18
