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"18 11 18 11", "Nobody takes the stairs anymore", & "Guilty pleasure" by Carol D'Souza



18 11 18 11


1

A random dude

with an inner calm

that did not reflect

in outer moves

In the first instance,

bad news

A mirror-walled room

in his ex-house

where your reflection

did not move

to correspond you

Curved as a sickle moon,

you gaze down

at me

and bracket your story

sheepishly,

and say:

look at me, boring you

I forget,

was this before or after

I claimed

that the moon

could easily be Jupiter

if one wasn’t particular

about red spots and such,

mere astronomical rules

2

18 11 18 11

time and date

on a mooned wallpaper

You photograph

in blurry haste

I throw around the word associate

I suppose I mean,

how could the photograph

at a later date,

not but remind me

of your face,

scoffing so rakishly

at my unscientific, cosmic claims

Narrating

oddly memorable

random tales




Nobody takes the stairs anymore


Bitten smooth lower lip

A mirror later, while wiping off


kajal, registers a glow. Cheeks

in bloom. Watermelon juice


with & no ice, last drink. Missing

earring. I have never been


able to ascertain, the extent of

your affection or the degree of


your inclination towards me.

AC interior of a car, your shoulder


cushioning my head, held

hand. Held as if I matter.


Three months, you sounded so

certain. No Solomun, indifferent to


persuasion, the DJ. Mixing cranberry and

vodka with a pint of beer, while reflecting


my wonder at your counter-intuitive

preference for women with feminist


bent, not contrived you said. It just so

happened. Stairs, shall we take the stairs?


The impression I got, sometimes. Preference

order: substances, interests, work, me. Of

course,


completely understandable. But other times,

like on brightly lit stairs, you hold as if there's


nothing else you can see, nothing else

you'd rather be doing. You hold as if


I am it. A goodbye inscribed in salt.

Nobody takes the stairs anymore.


Not deep, I know. Maybe three

months is all it'll take, to fade.


Holding my hair back, a smack, ah

the suggestiveness. Is the body


indiscriminate or can I read

into the touch, the embrace?


My disproportionate eagerness

is something I've reconciled with.


A goodbye done well. Just enough

left behind, to maybe, meet again.




Guilty pleasure


Contempt

felt in part but

not with real zeal

Amoral you

Hard sugar candy

Delighting to suck on but

the kind that inevitably

leaves the mouth smarting




Carol D'Souza: tea-drinker, walker

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