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Burnt aubergines


You come back again,

with blades attached to your eyes,

with an eraser floating

beneath your soul.

Carrying aubergines,

you arrive at my door.

Your gift is as bitter as your scent,

as random as the memories

you now resent.

Your voice,

as dizzying as your core.

And I watch you expand.

By the time you step in,

you are seeping through my hands.

You expand

like the stories you would tell,

like a bipolar cell,

like a Damascene cloud.

Which part of my map

have you not smudged, my friend?

Which part of my earth

did you leave unploughed?

Or perhaps you are here

to take back the one thing you left behind.

A cross fashioned

from the shrouds of your god,

moulded with shame,

fastened with cogs.

Vividly ruthless.

Intangibly kind.

Suffocatingly aware.

Legally blind.

A cross bequeathed to you

by those who took turns

shattering their fists

over the child’s mind –

a beautiful, tender mind –

the mind I tried to comfort,

as your blades cut through mine.

Or perhaps you are here

to take back the one thing,

the only thing,

you left behind.


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