somewhere far away

**content warning: blood mention**

in the dream, i have a brush

for one hand & a pincer for the

other. it’s two am & i am

stalactite in sand, my body

a drought and cutting into the

glinting ground, fashioning itself a

blade from all the carcasses that

lie in its hollow. in the dream,

i have cow-bells for fingers

& a mud-monster for a friend. it’s

two in the afternoon when the

clapper is in my throat already, but

in the dream, where i have seeds

for feet & decay for lungs,

i touch the air around me &

snap it into a wall into glass

into a forest into a door, hands

bronze and plain. in kutch, the

people are made of straw &

have beads in place of eyes,

scabs for skin. they make

portraits of their suffering &

call it art. they hold their

language in their lapel, their

craft at the back of their teeth,

coil their children and their

animals around their fingers.

they speak in depths & i think

that’s where i get it from: the

blood puddles, the litany of

slewed voices (one of my

fifth grade teacher, another of

the stranger who caressed my

brother’s cheek). this is how

we talk: voices a whip on our

cheeks, hair braided with metal

shafts. us, careless children, our

speeches tucked into our armpits,

a blood river in our mouths.