By: Garima Sharma

In the balms of my new forehead
that grew like grief over the walls
you could never see
the shame.

my backs
thousands of them,
became
mirrors
that turned into silver blanks dots
of the mind

after every skin coloured
poem that touched the sides of my breasts

I felt alive
in a stopped way
like a corner
without edges
to hide
or hold
like a vomiting lip
singing
instead of
hurting
or hurting
instead of
moving.

What kind is your man?

Mine moves without liquid
and in the absence, creates ceilings
as if laughter died inside my
womb instead of its usual punctures

Your kind could never know,
the redness of full thighs
or the language of brilliant stones
that were our eyes

But only
mad omens
that displace the tits from beds
and the beds from
bread
and those from
reading real bodies
that are as bright
and bare
as naked light.

****

Garima Sharma lives in Mumbai and writes to survive. She has a fetish for Bizzaro Lit, Ramsay films, flowers and Hilda Hilst. Her friends call her garibokima. She is currently working on her book of experimental verse.