Pristine is not the word: this situation is situated outside your pasture.
In the long shot it looks like an eviscerated wolf talking.
Close-up it is kissing a lipless face.
We are always coming back from a seesaw journey.
Time passes, we barely blink.
The third man holds everything together.
It forms a circle from time to time, like a snake biting its own tail.
How do you fit in there?
Nobody is in contemplative mood as the solstice goes on.
Now we share the housework among us because mothers disappear too.
Eat quickly. A is for B.
When it rains they are washed away, stitches revealed to the daylight.
The pavements have stories to tell but no deathbed confessions.
Maung Day
*This poem appeared in The Wolf, issue 25
No comments:
Post a Comment