some people grow up like me, some the way
i wish. but then it is
often (=always) a game of circumstance:
those that can impose a new memory on an old
-forget the underlying print-
escape. some try shaking off links,
leave out certain tastes, places, smells.
even certain degrees of light.
but most slowly crumble inside and
are gone in a way no one ever
for example, i. sometimes when it
rains i am a bird. sometimes the rain runs
down my shin in slow lines. it is strange anaethesia.
and i can hardly tell how capsaicin seethes
on tastebuds. even salt is a dead song.
after maa died, i gave up everything i loved.
and swore to waste away. yes,
exactly this way, in permanent denial.
it is all sillage, nothing more.
secretly i still crave her crisp mourola bhaja
mourola= Indian anchovy