.
In which the hands of people changed to things like flowers
for which new, uneasy forms of consideration
by which that iron-suited man, foolish and careful,
negotiates crowds, his two wrists bearing red hibiscus
necessarily bruised, a little raised, a little forwards,
a rivelled fountain their corollas accompanying him.
How approach the cockroach-gripped revoker of contracts?
How approach him whose sand crab hands try running askew?
How approach him? or how near the one mobbed by seagulls,
helpless to pull a glove on leaking packets of corn?
Ah whose iced hands disappear, condense, remade droplets . . .
instant, lasting blister-silk, should he once touch a heart:
— Vahni Capildeo
Published in Town issue 1, October 2009. Download the PDF broadside here.
See notes on contributors to this issue here.
