Photo credit: Nick Samoylov
By Neeraja Kumar
I am these buildings that surround me.
Rising as if out of transparent, thin air:
breaking to howl for oxygen as
they twist in their own architectural dance.
Claiming their stakes in poems that did not exist until
their foundations were built.
their beams were set up.
strong ladders were leant against the shaky brick walls for creating support.
Dust was scraped; nails were bled into the hardening cement.
There were days when they cupped their hands together and prayed as rough edged rollers painted them in unimaginable white hues.
when the workers told them that they were firm enough,
they’d framed themselves in windows with wood olive brown and sandal paste soft,
decorating themselves with
jewellery pretty new house soothing
perfect makeup forever patient calm
expensive clothes cute eyes subtle curves
pretty high heels heavy wig soft voice sweet smile
faux pas pretty
faux faux faux faux faux faux faux
succulents carefully balanced on tired windowsills so people can
see, see, see, see…