Do you think I should forget my mother
like an abstraction with no reality?
Like an earth that covers itself through the ages
with fresh layers, burying its older flesh?
Or an ablation whose gas is a vapour,
meant to escape unceremoniously? Do I feel the contagion
of destiny, so indifferent, that my soul reverses love
into a bind of forgetting? It means the wombs
from where I started, matter not. The algorithms of love
are belied by their finiteness. I turn a blind eye to the sun,
for fear its nurture will blind me! All the paradigms
of the noun love becoming only permutations and
combinations in a virtuality materialised by treachery!
Have I ventured into a space, so irretrievable,
that in forgetting the umbilical cord, I have lost all sense
of belonging, loyalty? Was I severed; thus, to take my own stand,
going colourless with the asphyxation, as if in being out of breath
I found my sustenance? How was I fixated on loyalties before?
Do I feel tasteless, appetiteless, like a spirit that disengages
from substance in a sudden impetuous haste with the reckoning
that it will lose all it loves with any attachment. Didn’t Midas
turn all he loved to gold, and lost all that he so fervently loved, in turn?
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