Nikita Tilak



I remember you big,
but now you are small.

You are growing somewhat backwards โ€“
little sir;

now when you come to see me
you are a shriveled embryo on my desk.

You open your mouth wide,
I peer into the greasy tunnel.
I got lost in there,
I slipped on all the surfaces.

It looks awfully narrow now โ€“
can even see your jangly dangly thing
jiggling at the back.

I take your invitation.

I reach in with a finger, give it
a little poke.
It’s just a joke, but
you scream harder.

You never did have a sense of humour.

I consider sweeping you off with my unwanted files,
slotting you โ€“ gently โ€“ into the recycling.

But perhaps I’d rather you did not come back.
You make a lot more noise than I remember.

Eyes roll, eyes flicker to, to my stapler โ€“ perhaps I should staple your โ€“

That is cruel.

Your screaming head has puckered
into a chute that goes kiss kiss in the air.
Hungry, I suppose.

I touch you, lift you, hold you, looking, looking for โ€“
ah, now I fasten those
trembling iodine lips to my coat hook.

You hang there, kiss kissing
with all your might.
Little mite. Beat your limbs against the wood.

Hold yourself safe.
Drain the door dry.

How did you ever get so small?
How, how? I wonder as I leave โ€“

(My tea was getting cold)


Featured image courtesy ofย John Ibbotson

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