The Insomniac’s Mouth
drones like a cave ululating the breeze of an unmoored summer night. In a hotel room his lover waits, the city’s roads sliming the barrenness of tongue. In his mind’s posterior, anticipation acquires memorability, irrespective of consequence. Hairs on his forearm sprawl outside the frame like threads uncoiling from a moist bough. Before entering the heart of this rapt noirness, he decides to make his mouth hot. A tea person, he realizes, for the purpose of smoothening vein and lactating speech, there’s nothing better than coffee at a roadside stall. Now whatever our eyes can’t and mustn’t see— the ether beyond curtains, the city swelling in bed -rooms past midnight, bodies crackling as sites for penetration of memory— is for the preservation of imaginative jealousy as a sacred stimulant for living. By the virtue of blood and bone, one hunger briskly passes over to another. Bread basking in the steam of kettles. Palms glowering golden, faces lush. Dawn, a mutual adoration of loss. Loss, a festive sadness. And the departure’s goodbye sprawl, a peacock displaying its regal span forecasting another downpour.