No 2: IN WRITING WORKSHOP

PHOTO BY LUCIA AUERBACH

ISHIKA DUBE

/You look at the ceiling/

sit under violent white lights/that burn stars/behind your eyelids/ s h i n i n g /shut eye sky/You press your fingers in/eye sockets/the sky turns/  black  / red  / w  i   t   h  pupil eclipses/ You turn yourself sightless/There are voices around/ d i s e m b o d i e d /dying/these words sound worse for wear/They ramble incessantly/It’s your w r i t i n g circle again/Their poem is about not understanding themselves/They cannot see themselves/these words are incoherent/eloquent/ t  h  i  c  k like cough syrup/Clogging their throats/  /    /

“Can you tell me what the poem is about?”

You see them quiver/ Their palms levitated above their roughened jeans quake/ Their butt hurts in the plastic chair/spine starched stiff/The light draws nearer/Circling closer like a hawk/ They mutter out phrases of family/ phrases of broken dreams/ phrases of love’s life’s lost ///   /

“Who are you?”

The murmurs grow/The voices grow/You are the voyeur here/You look away at the window /a mirror/You see their reflection/You shouldn’t be here/Yet you spy/Yet you will be/ / / / /

“Could you elaborate more?”

They tell them about waking/walking/a foreigner in their own bed/They press fingers into their face/Cartographing Contours/Making Maps out of their cheekbones/Afraid of staring too much at the mirror/For the fear of never looking awake/Forgetting who they’re supposed to be/ / / / / /

Silence reigns victorious/their head drops down/the murmurs grow louder///////

/I look at the floor/