The Making

Written by: Jeena Chacko

I remember all those who left behind nothing
except wrinkles and insecurities
I name each crease and fear after them
pricks of terrors peppering my nerves at night
It is among these that I lie hidden
tossed, folded, compressed
a torn paper piece containing the word ‘perhaps’
in slanting cursive, blotched ‘s’, faded ‘p’.
smelling of Vicks vaporub, if a smell could disguise at all
nose, tear ducts, brow, a mass of pain and camphor.
I dismantle myself and redraw the diagram 
Here. right by this little scar. 
I point out to you the red space, you fit in there snugly.
sit, sleep, remain. 

Your kisses draw a garden over my ribs
half suns and willows, a fountain springing high, high-
its torrential jet. If only my stomach could speak
rip open a mouth and scream out its need
vomit out butterflies, lumps swallowed by throat
shards of the old broken heart. 
I dream of confessional poems
peeling large, satisfying strips of my configuration
tearing them up, pulping and making
papier-mâché poems, airy, fashionable
yet, crushable, biodegradable.