Walking Through My City

What is this, this dark black love I carry,

walking through this city. At purple dusk, a glove full of blood;

I hide it hot and close to my body—  

the wild crows in unison screeching over darkening banyan trees:

night gathers her skirts over her white shame

the white walls of high bungalows gleaming,

some dark things lurking wetly in the trees

of the walled gardens. I sense shadows

watching from the wet frangipanni trees

that raise their skeletal arms into the air

to be undressed, to be undressed

behind those unbreachable walls—

I keep walking.

the crows are everywhere. They watch me with glistening beads for eyes,

they never tell their secrets, shut-beaked.

In the dark, the eyes of guards under their bearskin hats

are the only things that move— the whites of their eyes lolling,

half-crescents in the gloom.

I walk, pretending not to see

but they follow me. Deep into the caverns

of their ears; and from there, eyeballs

squeeze out wetly from dark ear-holes

and roll down the street

like marbles,

white—

I pick up my pace.

I could cry sometimes, hot tears

For ten years

I walked and walked

through a city that was never mine

with a gloveful of blood

cold, wet stump of a hand,

but nobody,

nobody saw me.

26.02.2025