Sequence I
I am afraid of the knock on the door—the monster is trying to define me.The streets are full of bagsstuffed with torn pages of banned novels.Are books the biology of our taboos?We are trying to possess everything,even fantasies of adult livessmelling of mother’s perfume.Thieves roam the city like blind lizards;they rob neither the poor nor ruin the rich—they only want to leave their fingerprintson everything the city owns.Is hunger a geography of our fears?Everyone is crazy about seafood these days,but priests and politicians eat only potatoes.
Sequence II
She is sitting in a café,reading her favourite novel—Tyranny of Tobacco King—what a view: police shooting womensmoking cigarettes on the street.She and her lovers know truth survives in the discarded furniture.Doctors and dictators shave every inch of their body hair—Are they scared of their own bodies,the tremor in their skin?Even God prefers topless beasts;nakedness is our only safety these days.They enter our bedroom and lock us in the shower.I am moaning in her arms,her grey eyes blinking, grieving softly,as if learning the rhythm of risk and restraint.The metal buttons of my jeans begin to melt between my legs.Recurrent images of war wounds flash,grainy, unauthorized from a damaged archive.My car is parked in the basement,I am limping,she is also limping-I see spiders eating each other in the darkness.
Sequence III
It must have been night—hot, monogamous. I wait for her.She is at the gate,fumbling with bone-white bra straps,awkward leather boots creakingwith every tiny adjustment.Each trivial movement riseslike a small blackberry rebellion—I can’t resist watching her.All the motels in my country are full—only gods or goats making love in the open.We dash to the deserted metro station.Thick peach lipsticks on our bruised lips.I pick up my pace,but the rain is relentless—my clothes soak through within seconds,her skirt clings to my hips,salty water floods my shoes.Shivering in the storm,I wait for the light to turn green- Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva’s blurred faces appear,indistinct, almost ghostly in the glistening wet street.
Sequence IV
I am startled — she keeps counting her nail marks on my thighs like her lost children.Not sure if the past matters anymoreor if the future is reduced to paid parking;everyone knows but no one speaks — hope has become the new violence.Am I to be blamed for defiance or discipline?I knew I was going to be old always —that is the only reason the sky remains young and beautiful.I hesitate to touch herbut don’t want to be left alone or lonely.She loves only lemons and lions —I see a blackbird singing in the eye of partition.Suddenly all calendars in my room vanish.Things that remember me also disappear.Only my body remains —growing like abandoned luggage in my father's home…
