By Kakoli Ghosh
from a full stop inside my tongue, he emerged fucking up from
the porn manuscript, doll panties with lace borders out of their
indented plastic legs, their distorted faces and cheap sunken butts, and
ink-slashed plastic breasts stashed in the bed-side bin, the scrunched pages and edges
rubbed back plain, stretched, over-read, unread; he screwed into my breaths,
stuffed me straight up to my epiglottis, from where you’d pronounce
some pure Urdu Alfaz, his elongated hissing there, in the vault of my treasure, fucking
my spiked tongue. My battered words fizz mumbling in the blowjob.
I vomit his patchwork and my prayers, flushed and forgot
slowly unremembering the slurry choke, stuffing him back to sleep, his nose
growing longer than the night, his popping eyes
retracting to their black holes, unlearning the sin.
Stains are good indeed, breeding poems, and prayers, press meets
on street urchins getting oil pastels, coloring books, pencils, and erasers.
His surfs excelled in leaving froth marks in my soft corner
choking my light, sealing countless mornings in my womb.
My lungs flap for sailing far, over the hangover,
he won’t know how he lost his way back to the manuscript, as,
by default, I left no clue for the sniffer dogs,
look! The sun also rises! splitting the world